CONSPIRACY 


ROBERT  BAKER 


AND 


JOHN  EMERSON 


THE  CONSPIRACY 


ALL   THE    WORLD    IS    INTERESTED    IN    A   CROOK. 


THE  CONSPIRACY 


BY 
ROBERT   BAKER 

AND 

JOHN    EMERSON 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK 

DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 
1913 


COPYRIGHT,  1913 
BY  DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I     A  QUEER  FISH 1 

II  THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  ROSSAMANO   .      .      13 

III     AT  THE  REFUGE 24 

IV  THE  BLUE  DRESS  AND  THE  RED  HAT   .      31 

V     JACK   HOWELL 41 

VI  WINTHROP      CLAVERING      SECURES      A 

STENOGRAPHER       51 

VII     A  NEW   CONSPIRATOR 73 

VIII     MARGARET'S   STORY 96 

IX     A  WHITE   SLAVE 116 

X  THE  MURDER  OF  JAMES  MORTON   .      .    133 

XI  CLAVERING'S   NEW   NOVEL    .      .      .      .154 

XII  JACK  Ho  WELL  DOES  THINGS     .      .      .172 

XIII  THE  OTHER  STORY 193 

XIV  To  BE  CONTINUED 214 

XV     THE  MURDER 239 

XVI     A     RELATIVE     OF     THE     LATE     JAMES 

MORTON 254 

XVII     THE   TRAP 276 

XVIII     THE   PLOT 302 

XIX     THE  END  OF  THE  STORY     .  .    321 


1521107 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  Margaret    Holt  " Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

"  All  the  world  is  interested  in  a  crook  "...        3 
'  Well  ? '  he  said,  looking  fixedly  at  her  "   .      .72 

"  And  you  —  to  think  that  a  little  girl  like  you 

should  pit  yourself  against  these  demons!"  154 

"  Haven't  I  told  you  never  to  allow  any  one  in 

this  house?     Haven't  I?" 227 

"  She  had  eyes  like  yours,  and  she  was  about  your 

height,   too " 243 

"  You  are  the  woman  who  murdered  James  Mor- 
ton and  I'm  going  to  give  you  up !  "  .      .      .   280 

'Is  it  all  good  ?     No  counterfeits  ?  '  he  queried, 
taking  up  a  huge  magnifying  glass  "       .      .312 


THE  CONSPIRACY 


CHAPTER  I 

A   QUEER  FISH 

THERE  are  some  queer  fish  in  New  York, 
queer  human  fish  that  swim  and  wriggle  in 
the  great  pool  of  life  that  spreads  from  shore 
to  shore  of  Manhattan.  They  come  seldom 
to  the  surface,  and  when  they  do  it  is  only  to 
blink  and  dive  beneath  again  to  seek  their 
own  familiar  haunts.  They  are  a  school  by 
themselves,  these  queer  fish;  book- worms, 
savants,  inventors,  philosophers,  so  buried  in 
their  own  thoughts  and  pursuits  that  they 
neither  know  nor  see  how  time  and  progress 
gradually  change  them,  at  least  in  outward 
appearance,  into  veritable  specimens  for 
museums. 

In  a  red  brick  house  in  a  certain  part  of 
old  Greenwich  village,  where  the  dwellings 


2  THE  CONSPIRACY 

have  not  yet  grown  higher  than  two  or  three 
stories,  and  the  streets  are  not  yet  canoned 
and  made  straight  by  the  rage  for  sky- 
scrapers, and  the  sun  still  gets  through  a 
lower  window  now  and  then,  lived  one  of 
these  queer  beings,  Winthrop  Clavering,  the 
author.  Such  classics  as  "The  Unseen 
Hand,"  "The  Second  Floor  Front,"  "The 
Murder  of  Father  Dominick"  and  scores  of 
other  thrillers  had  made  his  name  familiar  to 
the  public,  though  he  kept  himself  unseen. 
Living  like  a  hermit,  his  few  wants  attended 
to  by  an  old  negress  Martha,  he  wrote  his 
blood-curdling  stories  and  took  his  vicarious 
part  in  the  passions  and  emotional  crimes  of 
the  metropolis.  One  after  the  other  his  tales 
had  appeared,  at  first  in  paper  form,  and 
then  as  the  taste  of  the  newspaper  public 
needed  more  and  more  the  stimulation  of  sen- 
sationalism, finding  place  in  the  pages  of  the 
great  dailies ;  with  such  success  too  that  now 
each  new  instalment  of  a  serial  by  Winthrop 
Clavering  was  taken  with  keener  appetite 
and  relish  all  the  time. 


MARGARET  HOLT. 


A  QUEER  FISH  3 

"All  the  world  loves  a  lover,"  and  it  was 
Winthrop  Clavering's  observation  that  "all 
the  world  is  interested  in  a  crook."  It  was 
the  instinct  of  self-preservation  coming  out 
in  people,  he  told  himself;  the  instinct  in 
most  people  that  made  them  want  to  see  an- 
other man,  even  a  wrong-doing  one,  save  his 
life  and  neck  and  get  away  as  if  he  were 
themselves.  He  wove  his  stories  about  the 
crimes  and  misdemeanours  of  the  genus 
crook,  and  there  was  always  a  new  kind  of 
crook  to  write  about  too.  He  never  racked 
his  brain  to  invent  an  original  plot  or  story; 
he  found  it  in  some  crime  that  had  been  com- 
mitted close  at  hand,  in  New  York,  gener- 
ally one  that  as  yet  remained  shrouded  in 
mystery,  though  all  the  circumstances  were 
in  the  news.  In  such  a  selection  he  was  sure 
of  a  popular  theme;  something  that  every 
one  was  talking  about ;  for,  as  he  told  the  edi- 
tor of  the  Telescope,  "I  always  try  to  get 
my  stories  up  in  such  a  way  that  people 
won't  have  to  do  much  thinking.  Most  of 
them  can't  think  anyway." 


4  THE  CONSPIRACY 

In  the  course  of  time  his  criminology  be- 
came a  passion  with  him.  He  ate  and  slept 
with  his  ideas.  The  walls  of  his  shabby 
study  were  covered  with  X-ray  photo- 
graphs of  the  hands  and  finger  prints 
of  criminals.  On  his  book-shelves  stood 
a  jar  containing  the  brain  of  a  notorious 
law-breaker, — his  faithful  Martha  called  it 
"pickled  brains" — which  he  had  got  pos- 
session of  by  great  ingenuity  and  persist- 
ence. It  was  the  brain  of  a  man  who  had 
murdered  his  grandmother,  he  always  told 
people,  and  he  considered  it  a  most  invalu- 
able relic  "in  his  line." 

No  sooner  did  Winthrop  Clavering  hear 
of  a  murder  than  he  hastened  hot  foot  to  the 
scene  of  the  crime  to  go  over  every  detail  of 
the  affair,  and  poke  his  nose  into  every  cor- 
ner and  crevice  like  a  hound,  sniffing  about 
for  a  fresh  scent,  his  little  fox-like  eyes 
snapping  like  electric  sparks,  as  he  found 
even  the  minutest  thread  of  a  clue.  The  re- 
porters and  the  police  came  to  regard  him  as 
firemen  do  the  fanatics  and  enthusiasts  who 


A  QUEER  FISH  5 

run  with  the  engines  to  the  scene  of  every 
fire,  even  while  they  chaffed  and  sometimes 
hurt  him  by  laughing  at  his  comicality.  He 
had  the  resilience  of  youth,  though  he  was 
not  young,  never  tiring,  never  sleeping,  his 
brain  working  nervously  with  the  rapidity 
of  a  Maxim  gun.  He  considered  permission 
from  Police  Headquarters  to  make  his  in- 
vestigations unnecessary,  he  just  pushed  in. 
He  was  looked  upon  as  a  joke  by  some  of  the 
blue-coats  and  by  others  tolerated  as  one 
who  always  handed  them  a  laugh;  but  he 
went  on  his  way  unheeding  jeers  or  cheers. 
When  he  had  satisfied  himself  as  to  his  ob- 
servations on  a  case,  he  would  return  to  his 
musty  quarters,  change  his  old  cape-coat  for 
a  shiny  velvet  jacket,  don  a  black  skull-cap, 
light  his  pipe,  and  pace  the  room  for  several 
miles  at  least  before  his  narrative  began  to 
flow.  Very  carefully  he  would  make  his 
deductions.  At  first  his  practice  had  been 
to  write  out  all  his  stories  in  long  hand,  but 
as  his  manuscripts  became  more  and  more 
illegible  he  had  been  compelled  to  employ  a 


6  THE  CONSPIRACY 

stenographer  to  take  his  dictation  from  him. 
He  generally  wore  each  new  one  out  by  the 
end  of  the  first  week,  what  with  his  long 
hours  of  work  and  his  peevishness.  "Good 
Lord,"  he  would  say.  "Are  you  posing  as 
the  sleeping  beauty?  A  man  only  requires 
five  hours'  sleep  and  an  ordinary  woman  six. 
Only  an  owl  needs  eight." 

It  was  through  one  of  his  own  stories  that 
Clavering  became  convinced  of  his  especial 
value  to  the  community  in  the  pursuit  and 
detection  of  criminals.  He  had  written  a 
story  built  on  the  murder  of  the  Catholic 
priest,  Father  Dominick,  who  had  been 
found  lying  in  a  pool  of  blood  at  the  foot  of 
the  altar  at  St.  Bridget's  Church,  in  West 
9—  Street,  in  1893.  All  efforts  of  the  po- 
lice to  solve  the  mystery  had  proved  futile, 
but  Clavering  as  usual  went  over  all  the 
ground,  made  his  observations  quietly  and 
then  published  a  story,  founded  on  this 
crime,  in  which  he  worked  out  the  true  solu- 
tion of  the  gruesome  mystery.  It  was  his 
happiest  achievement  so  far,  and  he  was  al- 


A  QUEER  FISH  7 

ways  proud  of  it  and  of  its  consequences. 
One  day  seated  in  a  subway  car,  he  noticed  a 
man  in  front  of  him  reading  in  the  news- 
paper the  last  instalment  of  this  story,  the 
one  which  described,  with  much  particu- 
larity, the  murder  of  the  poor  priest,  and  as 
he  watched  the  man  reading  he  noticed  a 
great  trembling  of  his  hands  and  a  ghastly 
pallor  on  his  face,  and  heard  finally  the  mut- 
tered exclamation:  "My  God,  how  did  he 
know?"  When  the  man  hurriedly  left  the 
car  at  Forty-second  Street  Clavering  was 
close  on  his  heels.  It  was  the  work  of  a  few 
moments  to  signal  an  officer  and  have  the 
man  arrested  on  suspicion.  His  agitation 
was  so  apparent  that  he  was  taken  at  once 
to  headquarters,  where  he  confessed  in  due 
form.  His  admission  that  the  main  facts 
of  the  crime  were  almost  identical  with  those 
described  in  Clavering's  story  was  a  great 
feather  in  the  novelist's  cap.  Clavering 
himself  attached  great  importance  to  the 
thing,  indeed  expected  to  be  officially  at- 
tached to  the  secret  service  bureau  as  one 


8  THE  CONSPIRACY 

result  of  it  then  and  there ;  he  saw  himself  ac- 
claimed the  foremost  living  authority  on 
crime  and  no  criminal  safe  within  his  juris- 
diction. To  his  bitter  disappointment  there 
was  no  recognition  of  his  work  at  all  from 
headquarters;  the  blue-coats  continued  to 
laugh  and  call  him  "Little  Nemo,"  as  if  the 
detection  of  Father  Dominick's  assassin  had 
been  the  merest  accident  or  coincidence. 

Then  again  there  was  the  case  of  that 
Greek  boy,  William  Saphiro,  who  was  ab- 
ducted. Clavering  with  his  usual  zeal,  un- 
daunted by  continued  lack  of  appreciation 
from  those  high  in  authority,  formed  his  own 
theories  on  this  case,  too,  and  going  to  Cap- 
tain Ryan,  in  whose  precinct  the  abduction 
had  taken  place,  offered  to  show  him  how 
he  could  run  down  the  abductor. 

Ryan  only  laughed  and  said:  "The  po- 
lice department  don't  need  any  wise  guys 
like  you  to  teach  'em  their  trade.  Say,  get 
this:  You  keep  your  nose  out  of  our  busi- 
ness! Back  to  the  Nick  Carter  stuff,  for 
yours," 


A  QUEER  FISH  9 

Clavering,  choking  with  rage  and  empha- 
sising each  word  with  a  pound  of  his  cane  on 
Ryan's  desk  retorted:  "If  you'd  put  a  set 
of  my  books  in  headquarters  and  make 
your  blue-coats  read  them,  you  all  might 
learn  something  about  the  detection  of 


crime." 


And  indeed  it  was  not  long  before  his  an- 
ger turned  to  gloating,  for  when  the  boy 
Saphiro  was  found,  his  abductor,  who  had 
escaped  to  Europe,  far  beyond  the  reach  of 
extradition,  was  none  other  than  Clavering 
had  predicted  in  his  fiction. 

And  so  in  various  ways  it  came  about  that 
the  story  teller,  less  and  less  appreciated  by 
the  police,  turned  for  recognition  to  the  pub- 
lic that  reads  the  newspapers.  For  weeks  at 
a  time  now  Clavering  was  not  seen  by  the 
blue-coats.  The  enormous  output,  the  in- 
credible productiveness  of  his  brain  never- 
theless was  gaining  vogue  in  the  Evening 
Telescope,  which  had  contracted  with  him 
generously  for  three  new  serials. 

The  next  thing  to  attract  his  intellect  was 


10  THE  CONSPIRACY 

the  machinations  of  the  Scarlet  Band,  as  the 
fame  and  depredations  of  this,  New  York's 
latest  vicious  organisation,  spread  abroad. 
He  formed  his  theory  as  to  a  possible  cap- 
ture of  the  leaders,  but  to  what  end,  he  asked 
himself.  The  police  would  not  listen  to  him ; 
they  would  only  laugh  at  him :  at  him,  whom 
they  refused  to  recognise  as  the  world's  fore- 
most authority  on  crime.  He  had  half  a 
mind  to  make  one  more  attempt,  one  last  ef- 
fort to  be  heard.  He  would  not  go  to  head- 
quarters this  time,  he  would  reach  higher  up. 
An  interview  with  Victor  Holt,  Assistant 
District  Attorney,  the  one  man  in  New  York 
who  appeared  to  be  taking  a  live  interest  in 
the  detection  and  extermination  of  the  Scar- 
let Band,  might  bear  fruit.  In  his  shabby 
cape  and  slouch  hat,  with  a  parting  injunc- 
tion to  Martha,  not,  under  penalty  of  death, 
to  disturb  any  of  his  papers,  he  left  the  house 
and  bent  his  steps  in  the  direction  of  the  As- 
sistant District  Attorney's  office,  mumbling 
so  audibly  to  himself  the  while,  that  passers- 
by  turned  to  look  and  smile  at  the  strange 


A  QUEER  FISH  11 

figure,  with  its  squeaky  boots  and  stumping 
cane. 

Clavering  had  seen  pictures  of  Victor 
Holt  in  the  papers  and  liked  his  looks. 
"Fools!  I'll  show  them,"  he  muttered. 
"I'll  show  them  a  thing  or  two  in  the  way  of 
detecting  crime.  I'll  show  them." 

He  had  mounted  the  steps  of  the  L  road 
at  Clinton  Place  and  settled  'back  in  his 
seat,  full  of  the  Scarlet  Band,  when  his 
eyes  lighted  suddenly  on  the  glaring  head- 
lines of  a  newspaper  held  outspread  by 
some  one  opposite  to  him. 

"MURDER  AT  THE  HOTEL 
BEAUMONT!  JAMES  MORTON, 
CUTLERY  MERCHANT,  STABBED 
IN  HIS  ROOM!"  they  shrieked  in  print. 

The  words  were  like  a  challenge  to  Win- 
throp  Clavering,  the  great  amateur  in  the 
detection  of  crime — a  new  scent,  involving 
temporary  loss  of  the  old  one  but  none  the 
less  challenging  to  his  mettle.  He  alighted 
at  the  next  platform  and  purchased  an  ex- 
tra for  himself,  running  rapidly  through  all 


12  THE  CONSPIRACY 

the  particulars,  engrossed  almost  by  antici- 
pation in  the  murder  of  this  James  Morton 
of  whom  he  had  never  heard  before.  He 
would  not  go  to  Victor  Holt's  that  day,  he 
would  stop  at  the  old  Beaumont  and  see  what 
he  could  see. 

And  so  it  happened  that  although  he  did 
not  see  Victor  Holt  that  day  he  laid  the  be- 
ginning of  a  new  romance  that  was  not  with- 
out interest  to  Victor  Holt  or  those  near  to 
him ;  a  romance,  indeed,  considered  by  many 
of  his  appreciative  readers  to  be  the  most 
thrilling  he  had  yet  penned  on  paper.  But 
for  one  thing  he  must  get  a  new  stenogra- 
pher, he  told  himself.  He  would  call  up 
Miss  Towne  at  The  Refuge  in  Rivington 
Street  and  see  what  new  applicants  she 
might  have  on  her  list. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  AFFAIR   AT  THE  ROSSAMANO 

JACK  Ho  WELL,  reporter,  of  the  New  York 
Evening  Telescope,  better  known  to  his  as- 
sociates as  "Nosey  Jack,"  a  sobriquet  he  had 
won  from  his  abnormal  scent  for  news  and 
scoops,  gave  a  scornful  glance  at  the  assign- 
ment book  putting  him  down  for  a  "Sunday 
special"  on  the  Settlement  Houses  of  the 
"East-side." 

"Well,  wouldn't  that  make  you  send  flow- 
ers to  your  own  grave!"  he  commented, 
thumping  the  head  of  Andy  Rivers,  who  oc- 
cupied the  desk  in  front  of  his,  with  a  gener- 
ous roll  of  copy  paper. 

"What's  the  matter,  Jack?"  inquired  the 
recipient  of  this  special  delivery. 

"Oh,  stung  for  another  special.     Third 

I've  had  in  a  month.     Last  time  they  handed 
is 


14  THE  CONSPIRACY 

me  out  that  freak,  Winthrop  Clavering,  to 
do  a  write-up  on." 

"Say,  he's  a  nut,  isn't  he?"  said  Andy. 

"Oh,  no!  The  World's  foremost  Au- 
thority on  Crime!  He  and  Stealthy  Steve. 
Queer  old  fish!  Nearly  threw  me  out  of  his 
house.  I  thought  before  I  got  away  he'd 
have  my  finger  prints  taken.  He's  got  some 
ideas,  though,  growing  on  his  bean-vine, 
don't  you  forget  it.  And  don't  overlook  the 
fact  either  that  those  spine-vibrating,  crime- 
serials  of  his,  have  a  lot  of  readers." 

"Pretty  raw,  that  Scarlet  Band  story  he's 
writing  now,"  said  Andy,  shaking  his  head. 
"The  Blood  on  the  Door  Handle!  Good 
Nick  Carter  stuff." 

"Well,  believe  me,  Andy,  that  Scarlet 
Band  does  exist,"  said  Jack;  "and  it's  a 
pretty  raw  bunch,  too.  I  got  Clavering  to 
talking  about  them.  He  says  if  he  had 
the  blue-coats  under  his  direction  he'd  have 
the  hobble  on  those  'Red  Banders'  in  no  time 
at  all;  and  I'm  not  sure  he  may  not  know 
what  he's  talking  about." 


AT  THE  ROSSAMANO         15 

"They've  been  trying  to  throw  a  scare  in 
to  Victor  Holt,  all  right,  haven't  they?"  sug- 
gested Rivers. 

"Yes,"  replied  Howell.  "He  got  one  of 
their  'pink  notes,'  telling  him  he  must  be- 
have, or  they  would  'hand  him  one.'  Billy 
Flynn,  one  of  the  Byrnes  men  who  is  work- 
ing for  the  Assistant  District  Attorney, 
showed  me  the  letter  the  gang  sent  to  Holt's 
office.  Prety  raw,  it  was." 

"Is  Holt  scared?" 

"Not  he!  He's  no  piker!  But  Flyn's 
got  a  tip  that  there's  a  regular  conspiracy 
on  foot  to  put  the  obnoxious  A.  D.  A.  far 
from  the  madding  crowd.  If  they  do  that 
—well,  I  tell  you,  Andy,  they'll  pull  down 
this  whole  blooming  town  about  their  ears. 
Every  right-minded  citizen,  every  stranger 
within  its  gates  is  mad  over  Holt.  The 
man's  so  incorruptibly  honest,  so  determined 
to  pursue  this  gang  and  smash  'em,  that  he 
inspires  even  the  timid,  and  the  Lord  knows 
there  are  enough  of  that  stripe  in  this  gay 
metropolis.  Well,  I  can't  hang  around  here 


16  THE  CONSPIRACY 

and  gossip  with  you.  I'm  off  on  the  Settle- 
ment Expedition.  Wish  the  old  man  had 
put  some  one  else  on  it.  So  long!  Me  for 
the  'down  and  out  club/  ' 

There  was  a  touch  of  winter  in  the  air  as 
Howell  lit  a  cigarette,  and,  with  some  fur- 
ther grumblings  at  his  assignment,  left  the 
office  to  begin  his  search  for  his  material. 
He  figured  that  the  frequenters  of  the  Settle- 
ments would  seek  the  shelter  and  warmth  of 
the  Settlement  Houses  sooner  than  usual 
after  dark,  now  it  was  cold,  therefore  he 
had  time  to  fortify  himself,  before  beginning 
his  uncongenial  task,  by  dining  at  the  Cafe 
Rossamano  in  the  Italian  quarter,  where  the 
spaghetti  was  excellent  and  the  gorgonzola 
and  Chianti  the  best  New  York  afforded  at 
the  price. 

It  is  a  strange  weaver  of  fates  sometimes 
that  makes  two  human  orbits  intersect  each 
other  and  flash  their  lights  across  from 
sphere  to  sphere ;  a  weaver  of  fates  as  strange 
as  any  deus  ex  machina  in  a  tale  by  Win- 
throp  Clavering  himself.  As  Jack  Howell 


AT  THE  ROSSAMANO         17 

approached  the  Rossamano  from  one  direc- 
tion there  came  from  another,  at  top  speed, 
a  taxi  bearing  a  young  woman.  The  car 
swayed  around  a  corner  and  stopped  be- 
neath the  electric  sign,  Cafe  Rossamano,  and 
Jack  could  see  through  the  open  window, 
first  that  the  young  woman  was  pretty, 
second  that  she  was  trembling  like  a  leaf. 
She  was  out  of  the  cab  almost  before  it 
stopped,  looking  through  the  lighted  win- 
dows of  the  restaurant,  and  her  eyes  caught 
those  evidently  of  a  man  putting  on  his  coat. 
"Thank  God  he  is  safe!"  she  murmured  fer- 
vently, and  Jack  could  hear  her.  Not  dar- 
ing to  enter  the  place,  apparently,  she  waited 
in  the  shadow  of  the  doorway  for  some  one 
to  come  out.  With  her  eager  gaze  fixed  on 
the  entrance,  she  did  not  see  three  men  who 
emerged  from  a  third  taxi  across  the  street 
and  swiftly  and  quietly  approached  the 
Cafe. 

Presently,  the  young  man,  he  whom  the 
girl  was  evidently  seeking,  though  Jack 
could  not  descry  his  face,  came  through  the 


18  THE  CONSPIRACY 

entrance  way.  She  started  towards  him, 
impulsively,  and  called  "Victor!"  when  sud- 
denly a  pair  of  rough  hands  seized  her  from 
behind  and  at  the  same  moment  the  man 
Victor,  so  eagerly  coming  toward  her,  was 
grabbed  and  overpowered  by  two  of  the  trio 
of  ruffians  deposited  by  the  taxi-cab.  The 
whole  thing  was  as  swift  and  instantaneous 
as  a  motion  picture  film,  and  for  one  moment 
Jack  Howell  felt  like  a  mere  spectator  in 
the  whole  business.  The  next  his  sympa- 
thies surged  warmly  up  and  he  was  an  actor 
in  the  drama  without  ado.  The  girl  was 
pretty  and  in  distress.  Jack  was  young  and 
ruddy-blooded,  and  in  spite  of  his  boyishness 
and  his  air  of  slang  and  devil-may-care  by 
nature  essentially  chivalrous.  In  another 
instant  he  was  in  the  midst  of  the  affray. 
He  had  been  a  witness  to  the  assault,  had 
seen  the  look  of  appeal  in  the  girl's  eyes,  and 
he  proposed  to  answer  it  to  some  effect.  In 
a  second  he  dealt  a  stiff  upper-cut  on  the 
jaw  of  the  ruffian  who  held  her  by  the  throat. 
It  was  a  hard  blow  and  well  directed,  and  he 


AT  THE  ROSSAMANO         19 

felt  his  knuckles  crunch  most  satisfactorily 
as  they  went  home,  felling  the  thug  to  the 
ground.  After  all,  Jack  Howell  loved  a 
fight. 

The  girl,  freed  from  the  grasp  of  her  as- 
sailant, tried  to  reach  the  man  she  had  come 
for,  but  a  violent  push  from  one  of  the  men 
with  whom  he  was  struggling,  sent  her  reel- 
ing against  the  building,  half  stunned.  The 
man  himself  was  dragged  across  the  street 
and  thrust  into  a  cab,  the  driver  of  which 
hastened  to  help  the  half  unconscious  victim 
of  Howell's  blow  to  join  his  fellows  in  it. 
As  the  cab  moved  off  the  girl  gave  a  despair- 
ing cry  and  started  in  pursuit,  only  to  see  it 
speed  away  and  soon  disappear. 

Breathless  and  exhausted,  she  was  on  the 
verge  of  a  collapse ;  what  should  she  do — oh, 
what  could  she  do  now?  .  .  .  The  words  of 
despair  were  written  all  too  plainly  on  her 
lovely  but  now  clouded  features. 

The  cry  of  a  newsboy  brought  her  to  her 
senses  with  a  shock,  and  made  her  body  grow 
rigid  as  his  hoarse  words  reached  her  ears: 


20  THE  CONSPIRACY 

"Extry!     Extry!     All  about  the  murder  at 
the  Hotel  Beaumont."  .  .  . 

As  for  Jack  Howell,  when  he  regained 
consciousness  enough  to  open  his  eyes  and 
look  about  him,  he  was  lying  on  the  window 
seat  at  the  Cafe  Rossamano,  with  the  pro- 
prietor bending  anxiously  over  him.  There 
were  a  few  moments  of  dazed  wondering  as 
to  how  he  came  to  be  there;  then  the  mists 
cleared  and  a  twinge  from  his  badly  bruised 
and  swollen  hand  served  as  the  missing  link 
between  the  present  and  his  past  adventure 
on  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  the  Cafe. 

He  roused  himself  with  a  start. 

"Who  hit  me?  Jack  Johnson?"  he  mut- 
tered confusedly;  then  as  his  mind  steadied 
again  he  wondered:  "Where's  the  girl?" 
Her  eyes  had  seemed  to  burn  into  his  so  re- 
proachfully. With  a  mighty  effort  he  got 
to  his  feet.  "Where  is  she?  I  must  help 
her,"  he  cried  excitedly. 

Slowly  the  events  that  had  followed  his 
arrival  in  front  of  the  Cafe  began  to  fall  into 


AT  THE  ROSSAMANO         21 

line.  What  had  he  stumbled  into,  he  won- 
dered. That  was  more  than  a  mere  hold-up 
that  he  had  taken  a  hand  in.  Who  was  the 
man  Victor?  Ouch!  Because  of  that  infer- 
nal thug  he  had  lost  the  chance  of  a  scoop  too 
for  his  paper! 

He  made  inquiries  of  the  proprietor,  but 
the  man  merely  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
—knew  nothing.  He  had  heard  a  cry,  he 
said,  and  upon  going  out  had  found  Signer 
Howell  lying  on  the  side-walk.  That  was 
all! 

"Was  it  all?  Not  if  you're  a  damned 
liar!"  thought  Jack;  "but  I  don't  know  as 
it's  the  time  now  to  tell  you  what  I  think  of 
you." 

Well,  he  had  undoubtedly  lost  a  good 
thing,  but  he  must  go  on  with  his  regular 
work  just  the  same.  He  lingered  over  a 
cup  of  strong  coffee  after  dinner  and  con- 
sulted the  list  of  Settlement  Houses  in  his 
book.  "The  Refuge!"  That  sounded  the 
most  promising.  It  suggested  atmosphere. 
He  would  do  "The  Refuge"  first, 


22  THE  CONSPIRACY 

As  he  left  the  Cafe  two  newspaper  cronies 
hailed  him,  but  he  passed  them  with  unseeing 
eyes.  "What  in  thunder  can  have  hap- 
pened to  old  Jack?"  one  of  them  exclaimed. 
"He  looked  dazed."  They  turned  to  look 
ofter  the  rapidly  disappearing  figure.  "No, 
it  can't  be  that,"  they  thought,  "he's  walk- 
ing as  straight  as  a  parson.  He's  probably 
struck  a  scoop." 

Howell  made  his  way  along  the  brilliantly 
lighted  streets,  through  the  hurrying,  jost- 
ling crowds,  his  mind  reverting  always  to 
the  pretty  and  sweet-looking  girl  whom  he 
had  helped.  "What  wonderful  eyes  she 
had!"  he  thought.  "And  what  a  glance  of 
gratitude  she  threw  me."  What  was  she 
after,  he  speculated.  Who  was  the  Victor 
she  was  so  eager  to  get  in  touch  with  ?  What 
had  upset  her  so,  and  made  her  seem  so 
stricken  and  afraid  ?  He  would  give  a  good 
deal  to  know  if  he  was  ever  to  see  that  girl 
again,  Jack  Howell  would.  She  was  .  .  . 

"Extry!  Extry!  All  about  the  murder 
at  the  Beaumont!" 


AT  THE  ROSSAMANO         23 

The  cry  brought  him  back  with  a  shock 
from  his  reveries.  A  paper  was  thrust  in 
front  of  him.  Mechanically  he  took  it  and 
glanced  at  the  head-lines,  then  thrust  the 
thing  into  his  pocket  in  disgust:  "And  I 
wasn't  at  the  Beaumont,  either,"  he  sighed 
dolefully.  "I  bet  Jimmy  Gallagher  got 
that  scoop.  Oh  pshaw!  I'll  go  down  to 
that  Refuge  and  start  a  murder  special  of 
my  own  .  .  ." 


AT   THE   REFUGE 
"  YlP-I-ADDY-I-AY-AY !" 

The  sound  came  forth  in  a  wail  from  the 
phonograph  provided  for  the  amusement  of 
the  guests  and  waifs  at  The  Refuge  in  Riv- 
ington  Street.  In  the  consciously  quiet 
room,  with  its  intentionally  "refined"  sur- 
roundings, the  scratchy,  dolorous  whine  con- 
trasted quaintly  with  the  exulting  lewdness 
of  the  selection  on  the  "record." 

Professor  Kaufman,  sitting  at  the  read- 
ing table  over  in  the  alcove,  farthest  from 
the  street,  raised  his  head  and  frowned  sav- 
agely at  "the  poor  man's  opera."  The  pro- 
fessor was  a  poor  man  himself ;  he  was  mak- 
ing a  few  quarters  by  long,  hard  work  over  a 
Spanish  translation,  and  the  phonograph  an- 
noyed him. 

Miss  Towne,  the  secretary  of  The  Refuge, 

24 


25 

was  busy  at  her  card  catalogue,  and  the 
frown  was  wasted  on  her  shapely  back.  Old 
Sam  Shipman,  the  author  of  the  assault  on 
the  professor's  peace,  was  studying  a  crucial 
move  in  a  game  of  checkers  with  Col. 
Schultz  at  a  little  table  in  front  of  the  open 
fire,  while  the  Colonel  dozed  blissfully,  the 
white  bowl  of  his  china  pipe  resting  cosily 
among  the  folds  of  his  old  blue  army  shirt, 
which,  though  minus  a  button  or  two,  strove 
with  the  spirit  of  '61  to  hem  in  and  confine 
an  ample  waist. 

Observing  that  nothing  could  be  accom- 
plished by  frowning,  the  Professor  rose,  vio- 
lently kicked  his  chair  back  and  stamped 
over  to  the  phonograph,  which  presently  sub- 
sided with  a  plaintive  bleat  in  the  middle  of 
a  bar.  The  Professor  stamped  back  to  his 
chair.  Mr.  Shipman  raised  his  head  from 
his  scrutiny  of  a  strategic  pathway  into  king 
row,  glared  at  the  retiring  Professor — and 
switched  on  the  music  again.  He  had 
hardly  settled  himself  to  study  his  move 
when  the  Professor  again  strangled  the  con- 


26  THE  CONSPIRACY 

cert  and  retired.  Mr.  Shipman,  his  grey 
moustache  bristling  with  belligerency,  rose 
to  hold  up  his  end  of  the  controversy  when 
Miss  Towne's  quiet  voice  pushed  him  back 
into  his  seat. 

"Mr.  Shipman,  I  would  not  start  that 
again  if  I  were  you,"  she  said  sweetly. 

"All  right — if  you  say  so,"  growled  the 
music  lover,  with  a  final  glare  at  the  Pro- 
fessor, meant  to  convey  the  information  that 
he  bowed  only  to  recognised  authority.  But 
the  Professor's  red  nose  was  down  within  an 
inch  of  his  work,  and  Mr.  Shipman  found  an 
outlet  for  his  feelings  by  prodding  his  oppo- 
nent in  the  ribs  with  an  unnecessary  vehe- 
mence. 

"Vot  is  it?"  gasped  the  German,  thus  un- 
ceremoniously yanked  out  of  Dreamland. 

"It's  your  move,"  growled  Mr.  Shipman. 

"Huh?"  blinked  the  Colonel. 

"I  say  it's  your  move." 

"Ah!"  Colonel  Schultz  took  a  long  pull 
at  his  pipe,  surveyed  his  opponent's  latest 
attack  and  moved  accordingly,  humming 


AT  THE  REFUGE  27 

blithely  as  he  saw  Mr.  Shipman  marching 
open-eyed  into  a  trap. 

The  Professor's  head  jerked  back  and  he 
frowned  at  the  checker  table  again.  Colonel 
Schultz  hummed  on,  and,  after  hissing  "Si- 
lence" without  effect,  the  Professor  got  an- 
other ruling  on  humming  from  Miss  Towne. 

Thereafter  there  was  peace  for  a  brief 
while  and  the  young  lady  had  leisure  to 
answer  the  telephone. 

The  room  was  a  large  one  typical  of  an 
East  Side  settlement.  At  one  side  there 
was  a  large  window  opening  on  the  street, 
and  at  the  left  of  that  a  door  that  opened  into 
a  hall  which  in  turn  led  also  to  the  street. 
...  In  the  back  was  an  alcove  with  a  win- 
dow. Pictures  of  Lincoln,  Washington, 
Mona  Lisa  and  the  Roman  forum  adorned 
the  walls.  There  were  bookcases  and  tables 
and  altogether  an  attempt  at  home,  which 
somehow  missed  the  sure  comfort  and  safety 
of  home  and  became  in  aspect  as  well  as 
name  a  "refuge"  more  than  a  real  home. 
Miss  Towne  sat  good-naturedly  through  it 


28 

all,  while  the  old  fellows  chaffed  and  chafed 
and  bickered,  or  asked  questions. 

"Is  the  Evening  Telescope  there,  Miss 
Towne?"  demanded  Col.  Shipman.  "I 
want  to  get  to-day's  instalment  of  Win- 
throp  Clavering's  last  thriller.  It's  called 
'The  Blood  on  the  Door  Handle.'  Are  you 
reading  it?" 

"I  ?  Oh  dear  no !"  said  Miss  Towne,  pass- 
ing him  the  paper. 

"Well,  you  ought  to.  It's  the  best  yet. 
It's  founded  on  the  disappearance  of  that 
Reynolds  girl  about  two  months  ago." 

"Millicent  Reynolds?"  asked  Miss  Towne, 
interested. 

"She  has  never  been  heard  from,  has  she?" 

"No!"  said  Shipman,  "but  I've  an  idea  if 
they'd  follow  up  old  Clavering's  tip  here  they 
might  find  her.  He  thinks  it  was  the  work 
of  the  Scarlet  Band." 

"The  Scarlet  Band!"  queried  Miss  Towne. 
"I  thought  the  Scarlet  Band  was  a  gang  of 
forgers !" 

"Oh,    every  thing's    grist    to    their    mill, 


AT  THE  REFUGE  29 

but  their  chief  stunt  is  this  White  Slave 
stuff." 

"Good  heavens!"  cried  Miss  Towne. 
"Are  they  too  mixed  up  in  the  White  Slave 
Traffic?  I  thought  .  .  ." 

"T-r-r-r-r!"  went  the  telephone  bell,  and 
Miss  Towne  patiently  took  down  the  re- 
ceiver. 

"Mr.  Winthrop  Clavering?"  she  repeated. 
And  Mr.  Shipman  turned  to  listen. 

"He's  trying  to  secure  a  stenographer 
through  our  employment  bureau.  He'll 
be  here  later,"  volunteered  Miss  Towne. 

"Coming  here!"  cried  the  Colonel. 
"Well,  I'd  like  to  meet  him.  He's  an  au- 
thority on  crime.  Why,  I've  heard  he's  run 
down  more  crooks  than  all  the  New  York 
police  put  together." 

"That's  not  saying  much!"  put  in  Kauf- 
man. 

Shipman  disregarded  this  quip,  his  head 
deep  in  the  paper. 

"Ha!  Ha!  No  Scarlet  Band,  eh?  ... 
Kaufman!"  he  cried.  "Listen  to  this!" 


30  THE  CONSPIRACY 

Triumphantly  he  began  to  read  aloud: 
'  'Conspiracy  to  kill  Victor  Holt.  Assistant 
District  Attorney  receives  threatening  let- 
ter from  the  Scarlet  Band.  It  has  just 
been  learned  that  Victor  Holt,  the  As- 
sistant District  Attorney,  who  has  been  the 
moving  spirit  in  the  crusade  against  the  no- 
torious Scarlet  Band,  recently  received  a  let- 
ter from  the  Society,  threatening  him  with 
death  unless  he  immediately  ceased  his 
operations  against  the  organisation.'  Non- 
sense, is  it?  Well,  all  the  same  I'd  rather  be 
right  here  in  our  little  Refuge,  than  in  Vic- 
tor Holt's  shoes  if  that  bunch  are  after  him." 

But  Kaufman  scoffed,  and  the  argument 
between  the  two,  one  for,  one  against  the  ex- 
istence of  the  Scarlet  Band,  might  have 
waxed  even  beyond  the  resourceful  control 
of  Miss  Towne,  had  it  not  been  for  the 
abrupt  entrance  of  an  unexpected  visitor— 
a  pretty  girl,  wearing  a  blue  coat  and  hav- 
ing a  big  red  flower  in  her  hat. 

Miss  Towne  rose  patiently  to  receive  her. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   BLUE  DRESS   AND   THE  RED    HAT 

As  the  great  door  swung  to  behind  her  the 
girl  took  one  step  forward  and  paused,  look- 
ing about.  This  was  The  Refuge !  To  such 
as  she  the  room  in  which  she  stood  was  large 
and  homelike.  A  Franklin  grate  shed  the 
glowing  light  from  its  bed  of  red-gold  coals 
upon^a  great  white  cat  who  lay  dozing  on 
the  rug  in  front  of  it  and  now  blinked  its 
green,  wily  eyes  at  the  girl  in  a  knowing  way. 
On  either  side  of  the  long  curtained  windows 
in  the  alcove  were  shelves  of  green  and  flow- 
ering plants. 

The  whole  room  and  its  occupants,  in  a 
curious  way,  focussed  upon  the  girl  in  the 
blue  dress  and  the  red  hat  standing  appeal- 
ing and  irresolute  in  the  door. 

31 


32  THE  CONSPIRACY 

As  she  moved  forward,  Miss  Towne  looked 
up  from  her  writing,  and  noted  the  girl's 
lagging  step  and  white,  strained  face. 

"I  am  the  secretary  here,"  she  said  kindly. 
"Can  I  help  you?" 

The  warmth  of  the  tone  made  the  girl's 
overtaxed  strength  seem  almost  to  give  way ; 
walls,  tables,  chairs,  seemed  to  be  joining  in 
a  mad  whirl  about  her.  She  clutched  at  the 
desk  for  support,  and  said  with  an  attempt 
at  an  apologetic  smile :  "I'm  tired.  I  have 
been  walking  a  long  distance." 

"You're  faint!  Sit  down!"  the  older 
woman  urged,  and  added  half  aloud: 
"Poor  child!  Looking  for  work,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"I  understand  that  you  have  rooms. 
Lodgings  for  women,"  said  the  girl  faintly. 

"We  have.  But  they  are  all  occupied 
just  now.  I'm  sorry." 

The  girl's  lips  quivered  with  disappoint- 
ment. "Couldn't  you  find  some  place  for 
me?"  she  pleaded.  "I  am  too  tired  to  look 
further." 


BLUE  DRESS  AND  RED  HAT  33 

"Have  you  no  relatives  or  friends  in  the 
city?"  queried  Miss  Towne,  solicitously. 
Her  clear,  questioning  eyes  were  as  if  sound- 
ing the  very  depths  of  the  soul,  but  the  girl 
answered  haltingly  and  hesitatingly:  "No. 
I  have  just  come  from  Chicago.  I  thought 
that  I  might  be  able  to  get  work  in  New 
York." 

"You  arrived  in  the  city  only  to-day?" 
asked  Miss  Towne. 

"Er — Yes."     Again  the  girl  stammered. 

Miss  Towne  looked  towards  the  door 
through  which  her  visitor  had  entered. 
"Haven't  you  any  luggage?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  I  checked  my  bag  at  the  station," 
said  the  girl. 

"Why  did  you  not  go  to  a  hotel?"  asked 
the  secretary  again. 

"Why?  Oh,  I've  been  told  that  the  ho- 
tels will  not  take  women  who  are  alone,  at 
night." 

"Yes,  but  you  could — " 

"Oh,  but  can't  I  stay  here  just  for  this 
one  night?"  The  girl  tried  very  hard  to 


34  THE  CONSPIRACY 

appeal  to  the  other's  sympathy  and  put 
an  end  to  questioning.  She  gave  a  quiver- 
ing sigh  of  relief  as  she  saw  Miss  Towne 
take  her  pen  and  prepare  to  write  on  an  in- 
dex card  before  her.  "Did  you  have  em- 
ployment in  Chicago?"  the  secretary  asked 
gently. 

"Yes." 

"Of  what  nature?" 

"I  was  a  stenographer."  The  answers 
came  more  glibly  now. 

"Why  did  you  leave  Chicago?"  pursued 
Miss  Towne. 

"I — wanted  to  come  to  New  York." 

The  secretary  dipped  her  pen  into  the  ink 
again.  "What  is  your  name?" 

"My  name?  My  name  is  Ruth  Farley," 
the  girl  said  and  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  as  she 
saw  the  two  words  inscribed  on  a  card  and 
put  in  place  in  the  index  file. 

"Ruth  Farley,"  repeated  Miss  Towne 
presently.  "And  you  say  that  you  have 
been  employed  as  a  stenographer?" 

"Yes." 


BLUE  DRESS  AND  RED  HAT     35 

"I  may  be  able  to  find  a  position  for  you," 
said  the  secretary  encouragingly  as  she 
handed  the  pen.  "Sign  your  name  here, 
please." 

The  girl  grasped  the  pen,  desperately 
trying  to  control  the  trembling  of  her  fin- 
gers. She  gave  a  little  shaky  laugh  as  she 
saw  the  woman  watching  her. 

"I  am  so  tired  that  I  can  hardly  make  the 
letters,"  she  apologised.  "There,"  she 
added,  as  "Ruth  Farley"  stared  back  from 
the  card.  "I  think  that  you  will  be  able  to 
read  it."  Then  with  pathetic  appeal: 
"Are  you  sure  that  you  won't  be  able  to  give 
me  a  room?" 

"I  am  afraid  not.     But — " 

Again  there  came  an  interruption  in  the 
ringing  of  the  telephone  on  her  desk. 

"Hello!  Yes,  this  is  The  Refuge.  Who 
is  this?  Oh,  Police  Headquarters.  What? 
Yes,  we  have  an  employment  bureau.  Yes. 
What  is  the  name?  Mary  Hadfield?" 

The  strange  girl's  cheeks  were  white,  her 
eyes  aflame,  her  whole  frame  tense;  she 


36  THE  CONSPIRACY 

started  to  rise,  but  as  she  moved  she  caught 
the  eyes  of  the  man  who  had  been  reading 
the  newspaper  fixed  upon  her.  It  was  only 
because  the  words  "Police  Headquarters" 
habitually  excited  his  interest,  though 
she  did  not  know  that.  She  sank  back 
again  in  her  chair. 

Miss  Towne,  who  had  been  looking 
through  her  index  cards,  took  up  the  receiver 
again.  "No,"  she  said.  "We've  no  one  on 
our  books  by  that  name.  You're  welcome. 
Good-bye." 

She  turned  back  to  the  new-comer. 
"How  late  may  I  stay  here?"  the  girl  in- 
quired eagerly,  as  though  wondering  what 
she  should  do  or  which  way  she  should  turn, 
if  she  had  to  move  on. 

"Eleven  o'clock  is  our  hour  for  closing," 
said  Miss  Towne,  touched  by  the  hopeless- 
ness of  the  girl's  face;  and  she  added: 
"Don't  worry.  We'll  try  to  find  some  place 
to  put  you  in  to-night.  Have  you  had  any 
dinner?" 

"Dinner!"     The  idea  seemed  a  mockerv. 


BLUE  DRESS  AND  RED  HAT  37 

What  time  had  she  had  to  think  of  dinner? 
"No,"  she  replied  weakly. 

"Oh,  that's  what's  the  matter  then,"  Miss 
Towne  exclaimed  cheerily.  "Something  to 
eat  and  a  cup  of  tea  will  rest  you  up.  Come 
with  me."  Tenderly  she  placed  her  arm 
across  the  girl's  shoulders. 

As  they  moved  towards  the  door  the  dis- 
cordant cry  of  a  newsboy  penetrated  to  the 
peaceful  atmosphere  of  the  room,  unintelli- 
gible at  first,  but,  as  the  sound  came  nearer, 
resolving  itself  into  something  like  "Beau- 
mont Hotel!" 

The  words  attracted  Miss  Towne's  atten- 
tion as  well  as  the  girl's.  She  went  to  the 
window  and  rapped  loudly.  "Bring  me  a 
paper,"  she  called.  "Our  house  physician, 
Dr.  Jennings,  was  called  to  the  Beaumont 
late  this  afternoon,"  she  explained  as  she 
made  a  hasty  search  in  her  purse  for  pennies. 
"I  wonder  if—" 

She  was  interrupted  by  the  noisy  entrance 
of  the  boy. 

"Here  you  are.     Extra!"  he  shouted. 


38  THE  CONSPIRACY 

"Sh!"  came  from  the  table.     "Be  quiet!" 

Miss  Towne  looked  towards  the  indignant 
reader.  "You  must  not  expect  silence  al- 
ways in  this  room,  Professor  Kaufman,"  she 
smiled. 

The  man  muttered  something  in  reply  but 
elicited  from  the  newsboy  no  more  satisfac- 
tory answer  than  a  rough  "Aw,  chop  it! 
Chop  it!" — emphasised  further  by  a  shrill 
blast  on  his  fingers  as  he  passed  close  to  the 
Professor's  chair. 

Red  head-lines  flared  on  the  paper  in  Miss 
Towne's  hand.  "MURDER  AT  THE 
HOTEL  BEAUMONT,"  the  secretary 
read  aloud.  "A  woman  suspected.  James 
Morton—" 

"Excuse  me,"  interposed  the  girl,  tremb- 
ling. "Did  you  say  that  I  should  find  the 
dining  room  this  way?" 

The  words  brought  Miss  Towne  back  to 
a  realisation  of  her  duties.  "I  beg  your 
pardon,  my  dear,  I  am  most  thoughtless. 
I'll  go  with  you  at  once." 

She  laid  the  paper  down  and  led  the  way 


BLUE  DRESS  AND  RED  HAT  39 

to  the  dining  room.  Shipman,  to  whom 
murder  extras  were  the  elixir  of  life,  seized 
the  discarded  sheet  at  once.  "Wake  up, 
Schultz!"  he  commanded.  "There's  been  a 
murder!" 

"A  murder?  Eh!  Vat?  Here?"  ques- 
tioned the  Dutchman  sleepily. 

"No,  no!  At  the  Hotel  Beaumont," 
Shipman  explained,  pointing  to  the  head- 
lines. "Listen  to  this,  will  you?"  In  great 
excitement  he  adjusted  his  glasses  and  read 
aloud— 

MURDER  AT  THE  BEAUMONT  HOTEL!! 

James  Morton,  a  cutlery  merchant,  was  killed 
by  a  knife  thrust  at  about  five-thirty  this  after- 
noon, in  his  rooms  at  the  Hotel  Beaumont. 
Shortly  before  the  murder  Morton  had  a  caller,  a 
woman.  The  elevator  boy  declares  that  she  was 
a  foreigner,  Italian  or  Spanish.  The  boy  did  not 
see  the  woman  leave.  Morton  had  recently  taken 
into  his  employ  a  stenographer  named  Mary  Had- 
field.  Neither  of  the  elevator  boys  remembers  hav- 
ing taken  her  up  or  down  to-day,  though  she  may 
have  used  the  stairs.  When  the  hotel  clerk 
reached  Morton's  room,  he  found  the  door  locked 


40  THE  CONSPIRACY 

on  the  inside.  The  door  was  broken  down,  but 
no  one  was  found  in  the  room  except  the  dead 
man.  .  .  . 

"H'm,"  ejaculated  Shipman  as  he  folded 
the  paper  and  laid  it  on  the  table,  "I  bet 
Winthrop  Clavering  will  make  a  great  story 
out  of  that.  Come  on,  Schultz,  let's  go 
round  to  the  lecture  and  see  what's  doing. 
There's  a  lecture  on  Roosevelt's  African 
hunt  down  at  the  Hall." 

"Roosevelt!"  called  Schultz;  "is  he  run- 
ning again?" 

"No,  no ;  a  lecture  on  Roosevelt's  African 
hunt  down  at  the  Hall.  Come  on!" 

The  two  men,  arm  and  arm,  went  out  of 
the  room  just  as  Jack  Howell  entered  it. 
He  looked  back  after  he  had  passed  them, 
quizzically.  "Great  Scott!"  he  ejaculated, 
"What  types!  And  I've  missed  the  chance 
of  getting  some  'copy'  out  of  them  too.  My 
name  seems  to  be  General  Misser  to-day." 


CHAPTER  V 

JACK   HOWELL 

THERE  could  have  been  no  greater  contrast 
than  that  between  the  two  wrecked,  useless 
lives  that  had  just  drifted  out  of  The  Refuge 
and  the  young  reporter  who  entered  it. 
Jack  Howell's  cheery,  clean,  whole-hearted 
personality  made  one  think  of  great  stretches 
of  breezy  country,  of  pluck  and  valiant  deeds 
and  achievement.  Just  now  it  is  true  the 
usually  clear  eyes  held  a  slightly  dazed  look 
and  pain  was  drawing  tiny,  fine  lines  about 
the  corners  of  the  firm  mouth.  However, 
he  shook  his  broad  shoulders  and  by  way  of 
announcing  himself  exclaimed  in  a  tone 
audible  from  one  side  of  the  room  to  the 
other:  "Good  evening!  Everybody!" 

"Sh!"  came  from  the  irritable  book- worm. 

Jack  looked  to  see  whence  this  curious  and 
hospitable  greeting  came. 

41 


42  THE  CONSPIRACY 

"Did  that  steam  escape  from  you?"  he  in- 
quired, locating  the  Professor  as  the  gener- 
ator of  the  hiss. 

"Quiet,  I  must  have  quiet,"  came  the  acid 
rejoinder. 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  I  didn't  know  that 
I  must  soft-pedal." 

Making  his  voice  as  "gentle  as  any  suck- 
ing dove"  Jack  repeated:  "Good  evening! 
Good  evening,  everybody."  He  repeated 
his  greeting  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  as  Miss 
Towne  entered  and  took  her  seat  again  at 
her  desk.  "Whom  do  you  wish  to  see?"  she 
asked,  addressing  Howell. 

"I  haven't  wished  yet,"  was  his  rather 
flippant  reply,  as  he  turned  to  take  in  his 
surroundings.  "So  they  call  this  The 
Refuge,  eh?  It  looks  to  me  more  like  the 
Eden  Musee,"  he  commented,  as  his  eyes 
lighted  on  the  book-worm  who  sat  like  an 
effigy  in  the  alcove.  The  steadfast  and 
haughty  expression  on  the  face  of  the  secre- 
tary made  him  realise  that  what  to  him 
seemed  comedy  to  her  no  doubt  meant  deadly 


JACK  HOWELL  43 

earnest.  He  hastened  to  repair  his  error. 
"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  with  a  very 
winning  smile.  "My  name  is  Howell." 
Producing  a  card  to  prove  it  he  laid  it  on 
her  desk:  "Jack  Howell  of  the  Evening 
Telescope.,  commonly  called  'Nosey  Jack,' 
not  for  any  racial  reason,  however.  The  old 
man  sent  me  down  here  to  do  a  write-up  for 
the  Sunday  edition.  I've  had  a  lot  of  soft 
ones  lately,"  he  went  on  confidingly.  "Last 
week  I  had  the  Animal  Hospital,  and  spent 
most  of  the  day  nursing  sick  cats.  Week 
before — " 

He  was  now  getting  into  his  best  collo- 
quial stride  but  judged  by  the  passive  face 
before  him  he  was  not  making  any  particular 
impression  on  his  gallery.  Miss  Towne, 
whose  bump  of  humour  was  a  deep  cav- 
ity, acknowledged  his  effort  to  be  enter- 
taining by  gathering  up  a  handful  of  pam- 
phlets from  a  table  and  depositing  them  on 
the  desk  before  him.  "Here  is  an  outline 
covering  our  work,"  she  remarked  curtly, 
"if  it  is  information  you  are  seeking." 


44  THE  CONSPIRACY 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  that  kind  of  junk," 
cried  Jack.  And  a  hasty  inspection  of  the 
material  placed  at  his  disposal  made  him  go 
on:  "I  want  to  get  a  flash  at  the  human  side 
of  your  outfit  here.  It's  the  heart  stuff 
that  gets  the  readers,  you  know.  Funny, 
isn't  it,  how  people  like  to  read  about  other 
peoples'  troubles  to  forget  their  own?" 

"You'll  find  plenty  of  the  'heart-stuff,'  as 
you  call  it,  here,"  remarked  Miss  Towne 
dryly. 

"I'd  like  to  nose  round  for  a  while,  if  you 
don't  mind,"  said  Jack,  "and  get  some  of 
your  Refugees  to  talking;  but  I  don't  sup- 
pose they'll  loosen  up  much  if  they  get  me 
as  a  reporter.  I'll  frame  it  up  so  they  think 
me  down  and  out  too.  It  will  be  true 
enough.  I  was,  an  hour  ago/'  he  added,  re- 
minded of  his  late  adventure  by  the  stab- 
bing pain  in  his  hand.  "Isn't  it  about 
time  for  some  of  your  people  to  be  blowing 
in?" 

The  breeziness  of  the  reporter  began  tc 
make  itself  felt.  "I'm  afraid  you  have 


JACK  HOWELL  45 

struck  on  a  bad  night,"  replied  Miss  Towne, 
almost  apologetically.  "Most  of  our  regu- 
lars have  gone  to  the  Travel  Talk  at  The 
Peoples'  Institute." 

"Just  my  luck!"  ejaculated  Howell  dole- 
fully. "It's  been  a  rotten  day  for  me  any- 
way. How  about  that  old  chap,  there?"  he 
asked,  lowering  his  voice.  "Do  you  suppose 
I  could  get  anything  out  of  him?  He  looks 
as  if  he'd  had  a  past." 

"He  has.  He  used  to  be  a  professor  in 
one  of  the  universities,  till  drink  got  the  best 
of  him." 

"He's  a  student  of  Bacchus  now,  eh?" 
chaffed  Howell. 

"He  earns  a  little  money  now  and  then  by 
making  translations  for  writers  like  Robert 
Sears  and  Theodore  Calner,  or  Winthrop 
Clavering." 

"Oh,  does  he?  For  'Little  Nemo'? 
That's  what  they  all  call  Clavering  up  at 
Police  Headquarters,  you  know,"  explained 
Jack.  "You  know  he's  always  telling  the 
police  how  to  conduct  their  business.  Queer 


46  THE  CONSPIRACY 

old  pelican  he  is !  But  he's  got  the  real  de- 
tective stuff  in  him.  I  found  that  out  after 
talking  with  him  five  minutes,  even  if  I  do 
make  fun  of  him." 

"Do  you  know  him  well?"  questioned 
Miss  Towne,  referring  to  a  slip  of  paper  on 
her  desk. 

"Oh,  I  run  across  him  at  the  office,  occa- 
sionally. You  know  my  paper  prints  that 
Tve-got-you-now  stuff'  of  his." 

"Because  he  has  applied  to  us  for  a 
stenographer,"  explained  the  secretary,  "and 
I  judged  from  the  conversation  I  had  with 
him  over  the  telephone  that  he  must  be  a 
difficult  person  to  suit." 

"Well,  I  should  hate  to  take  that  stuff 
down  from  dictation  myself,"  said  Jack. 
"Why,  before  I  had  worked  for  him  a  week 
I'm  sure  I  should  be  committing  one  of  those 
pleasant  little  murders  he  writes  about.  I 
should  probably  lose  my  job  by  murdering 
the  old  fellow  himself.  However,  he  is  all 
right  on  the  pay,  I  guess.  But  to  return  to 
the  object  of  my  visit;  I  suppose  that  nearly 


JACK  HOWELL  47 

everybody  who  blows  in  here  hands  you  a 
hard  luck  story?" 

"Oh,  of  course,  and  true  ones,  no  doubt," 
replied  Miss  Towne.  "You  know  this  is  a 
harbour  for  disappointed  hopes,  the  last  port 
for  the  derelict." 

"Good!"  ejaculated  Howell,  feeling  in  his 
pocket  for  his  pencil.  "I'm  going  to  steal 
that." 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Miss  Towne 
blankly. 

"Why!  I'm  going  to  use  that  thing  you 
just  pulled  as  the  leader  for  my  dope. 
'Cruising  Among  the  Derelicts.' ' 

Enthusiastically  he  commenced  to  write, 
but  immediately  dropped  the  pencil  from  his 
swollen  fingers  with  a  slight  groan* 

"H'm !  That's  going  to  be  fine,"  he  whis- 
tled, looking  at  his  hand.  "You're  not  look- 
ing for  a  job  as  amanuensis  yourself  by  any 
chance,"  he  inquired  of  the  secretary. 

"Oh,  what  an  awful  looking  hand,"  cried 
Miss  Towne,  with  quick  sympathy.  "How 
did  you  do  it?" 


48  THE  CONSPIRACY 

"That?  Oh,  just  a  little  rough-house 
down  at  the  Cafe  Rossamano  before  I  came 
here.  The  usual  dope.  Beautiful  maiden 
in  distress.  Sir  Galahad  to  the  rescue,  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing.  Nice  little  souvenir, 
isn't  it?"  he  said,  gazing  at  the  injured  mem- 
ber. "But  she  was  worth  it,"  he  continued. 
"The  very  prettiest  thing  you  ever  saw. 
And  eyes!  You  could  look  into  those  big 
grey  eyes  and  get  a  moving  picture  of  Para- 
dise. I  don't  know  who  she  was,  but  you 
can  put  this  in  your  list  of  engagement  an- 
nouncements: she  can  scramble  the  eggs 
for  my  breakfast  any  morning  she  cares  to, 
and  put  Mrs.  John  Howell  on  her  visiting 
card  to  suit  her  convenience  any  day." 

His  impassioned  flow  of  serio-comic  elo- 
quence was  interrupted  by  an  indignant 
"Sh"  from  the  Professor. 

"Behave,"  retorted  the  irrepressible  How- 
ell. 

"You'd  better  have  that  hand  taken  care 
of,"  suggested  Miss  Towne  with  some  con- 


JACK  HOWELL  49 

cern.  "The  house  physician  will  be  here 
shortly." 

"Yes,  and  want  to  cut  it  off.  No,  I'm  go- 
ing to  carry  that  to  my  grave,"  he  declared. 

The  entrance  of  Dr.  Christopher,  the  Su- 
perintendent of  The  Refuge,  brought  Jack 
back  to  earth  and  work,  and  he  began  his 
notes  as  best  he  could  with  the  maimed  and 
aching  member. 

"Anything  new  since  I  went  out?"  in- 
quired Dr.  Christopher  of  his  secretary. 

"Yes.  A  young  woman  looking  for  a 
room.  No  relatives  or  friends  in  the  city. 
The  rooms  are  full,  but  she  seemed  so  ex- 
hausted and  discouraged  that  I  could  not 
turn  her  away." 

"Good.  I'm  glad  you  did  not.  We'll 
find  a  place  for  her  somewhere." 

He  looked  at  some  notes  on  his  desk. 

"Have  you  been  able  to  find  a  place  for 
Miss  Brown?  She's  terribly  discouraged 
after  her  long  illness.  We  ought  to  be  able 
to  do  something  for  her.  What  does  Dr. 


50  THE  CONSPIRACY 

Jennings  think  about  her  getting  back  to 
work?" 

"He  considers  her  quite  fit  for  work  now, 
he  says.  He  saw  her  this  morning,"  an- 
swered the  careful  Miss  Towne.  "And  oh, 
by  the  way,  Winthrop  Clavering,  the  author, 
wants  a  stenographer.  I  understand  his 
work  is  very  trying." 

As  Miss  Towne  turned  to  her  desk  again 
the  stump  of  a  cane  and  the  sharp  nasal 
tones  of  a  man's  voice  came  to  her  from  the 
hall:  "Is  this  the  house  of  Refuge?"  some 
one  was  asking.  "No,  boy,  you  needn't 
show  me  in.  I've  got  a  nose  and  I  can  fol- 
low it." 


CHAPTER  VI 

WINTHROP  CLAVERING  SECURES  A  STENOGRA- 
PHER 

BOTH  Miss  Towne  and  Dr.  Christopher 
looked  up  with  opening  eyes  at  the  curious 
figure  that  presented  himself  to  them  in  the 
doorway.  They  were  used  to  strange  per- 
sonalities in  that  retreat  of  the  unfortunate, 
but  never  before  had  they  met  the  type  of 
human  who  stood  before  them  now.  Old 
grey  trousers  that  were  worn  thin  and  flex- 
ible like  corduroy,  a  long  knitted  muffler,  big 
horned  spectacles,  and  long  hair  just  curling 
at  the  coat  collar — it  was  certainly  a  great 
make-up,  thought  Jack  Howell. 

It  was  Jack  who  came  to  the  rescue. 
"Why,  see  who's  here!  Talking  of  the 
Devil!  If  it  isn't  'Little  Nemo,'"  he 
laughed  out. 

"Don't  call  me  'Little  Nemo,'  "  exclaimed 


52  THE  CONSPIRACY 

the  novelist,  with  an  annihilating  glance. 
"I  tell  you  I  don't  like  it!" 

"Then  send  it  back  and  have  the  cook 
warm  it  over,"  pursued  Jack,  eager  to  draw 
the  quick  fire  of  his  nimble-minded  adver- 
sary. 

"Oh,  I  know  who  you  are;  you're  that 
fresh  reporter  that  called  at  my  house  once 
to  write  me  up  for  your  Sunday  edition," 
snorted  the  author  of  "The  Blood  on  the 
Door  Handle."  "And  you  misrepresented 
me  and  my  work.  I've  a  good  mind  to  sue 
you  for  calling  me  'Old  Grape  Nuts.' ' 

He  emphasised  the  threat  by  dumping  on 
Miss  Towne's  desk  a  huge  armful  of  books 
that  he  carried.  Then  wheeling  upon  How- 
ell  he  continued:  "That  paper  of  yours  is  no 
good  anyway." 

"I  know.  It  prints  your  stuff,"  answered 
Howell  meekly. 

"Yes,  and  it's  the  only  thing  that's  good 
in  the  rotten  sheet,"  was  the  answering  vol- 
ley. "Some  day  I  hope  they'll  print  your 


53 

obituary,  and  I'll  write  it,  too,  for  nothing, 
with  pleasure." 

"Those  be  harsh  words,  Bertha,"  mim- 
icked Jack. 

"Don't  call  me  Bertha!"  yelled  Clavering. 
"Don't  call  me  anything!  Don't  speak  to 
me!"  He  fairly  shrieked  the  words,  pound- 
ing on  the  floor  with  his  massive  cane. 

Dr.  Christopher,  who  had  listened  pa- 
tiently to  this  duel  of  words,  now  interposed. 
"What  can  I  do  for  you,  Mr.  Clavering?" 

"You  don't  look  as  if  you  could  do  any- 
thing," said  the  novelist  and  from  this  blunt 
summing  up  of  human  values,  turned  his 
search-light  gaze  again  upon  Miss  Towne. 
"Are  you  the  young  woman  who  wants  to 
work  for  me?"  he  demanded. 

"No,  I  am  not,"  was  the  emphatic  reply. 

"Glad  of  it!  Glad  of  it!  You  wouldn't 
do  at  all.  No  imagination,"  he  retorted. 
Miss  Towne  wondered  what  delicate  compli- 
ment he  would  pay  next. 

"Some  one  told  me  over  the  phone  that  I 


54  THE  CONSPIRACY 

could  get  a  stenographer  here,"  he  went  on 
impatiently.  "I've  got  to  get  some  one  to 
take  my  stories  from  dictation.  I  don't 
want  any  of  your  high-heeled,  perfume- 
reeking  ladies,  who  want  to  come  at  ten 
o'clock  in  the  morning  and  leave  at  a  quarter 
to  eleven.  I  want  some  one  who  can  be  on 
the  job  all  the  time.  Never  can  tell  when 
I'm  going  to  feel  inspired.  Sometimes  it 
comes  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  and  I 
want  to  dictate  then.  The  girl  must  live  at 
my  house,  and  sometimes  she  won't  get  out 
for  a  week  at  a  time.  Can't  write  'em  my- 
self. Bad  hand.  Bad  eyes." 

"Bad  boy,"  chuckled  Howell,  thinking 
that  the  author  might  be  too  modest  to  admit 
it. 

"Huh!"  grunted  Clavering,  for  once  hav- 
ing no  reply  ready. 

"We  have  a  young  woman  here  with 
whom  you  may  talk,"  suggested  Miss 
Towne,  though  without  the  slightest  doubt 
as  to  the  outcome  of  the  interview. 

"Will   she   stay  with  me  more   than   a 


THE  STENOGRAPHER         55 

week?"  questioned  Clavering  irritably. 
"None  of  them  ever  do." 

"How  strange!"  commented  Howell 
musingly. 

Miss  Towne  rose.  "I'll  see  if  Miss 
Brown  feels  strong  enough  to  talk  to  you," 
she  said. 

"Strong  enough!"  snapped  the  author. 
"Has  she  been  sick?  I  don't  want  any  ail- 
ing women.  I  had  one  once.  Just  as  I  got 
to  an  exciting  place  in  my  dictation,  she'd 
have  to  stop  and  take  Peruna." 

"Poor  soul!  I  shouldn't  have  blamed  her 
if  she'd  taken  poison,"  chimed  in  Howell 
sympathetically. 

Miss  Towne  was  leaving  the  room  and 
Clavering  called  after  her:  "Tell  her  she'll 
have  no  time  off  and  little  sleep.  I  never 
sleep,"  he  explained,  turning  to  Dr.  Christo- 
pher. "My  mother  never  slept.  My  father 
never  slept." 

"No?  They  had  you  on  their  minds,  per- 
haps," was  the  explanation  offered  by  the 
amused  reporter. 


56  THE  CONSPIRACY 

There  was  no  telling  what  Clavering's 
scathing  rejoinder  might  have  been  if  just 
at  that  moment  they  had  not  been  inter- 
rupted by  the  striking  of  the  clock.  Noth- 
ing could  have  been  more  curious  than  the 
effect  which  this  simple  sound  produced 
upon  the  noted  author.  As  the  last  stroke 
died  away  into  silence  he  suddenly  extended 
his  long  arms,  up  and  down,  back  and  forth, 
round  and  round,  in  a  fantastic  paroxysm, 
to  an  accompaniment  of  gasping  grunts. 
Jack  Howell  looked  on  in  mute  astonish- 
ment; he  had  never  seen  the  old  fellow  like 
this  before. 

"Take  them  every  hour,"  explained  Clav- 
ering  breathlessly.  "Keeps  the  blood  in 
circulation,  and  nourishes  the  brain.  Six- 
teen, seventeen,  eighteen — " 

Howell,  getting  the  stroke  now,  joined  in 
the  physical  pyrotechnics.  "Every  little 
movement  has  a  meaning  all  its  own,"  he 
sang. 

"Don't  sing  that!  Damn  it!"  grunted 
the  star  performer;  "I  hate  Grand  Opera. — 


THE  STENOGRAPHER        57 

Twenty-three,  twenty-four,  twenty-five. 
Ah!"  he  panted  as  he  exhaled  at  last  and  al- 
lowed his  waistcoat  to  resume  its  normal  cir- 
cumference. 

"The  next  number  on  our  bill  will  be  The 
Diving  Dill  Pickle,"  announced  Howell 
solemnly,  but  this  time  he  drew  no  fire. 

Refreshed  by  his  exercise  Clavering 
turned  upon  the  unoffending  Superintend- 
ent. "So  you're  trying  to  make  people  bet- 
ter, are  you?"  he  sneered. 

"That  is  one  of  our  aims,"  responded  Dr. 
Christopher  quietly. 

"Well,  you're  wasting  your  time," 
growled  Clavering. 

"I'm  sorry  you  think  so,  but — " 

"But  why  should  you  care  what  I  think?" 
demanded  Clavering,  eager  to  start  an  argu- 
ment. 

"He  doesn't,"  interposed  Howell. 
"That's  politeness." 

"I  call  it  lying,"  Clavering  retorted. 

"But,  my  dear  sir,"  began  the  Superin- 
tendent, beginning  to  get  out  of  patience 


58  THE  CONSPIRACY 

with  Clavering's  almost  insulting  manner 
and  remarks.  The  latter  paid  no  heed  to 
Dr.  Christopher's  protest,  but  resumed  his 
caustic  observations  in  his  same  spirit  and 
without  delay. 

"I've  never  had  any  use  for  churches  or 
missions  except  for  local  colour  in  stories," 
he  asserted.  "A  church  makes  a  fine  setting 
for  a  mystery  story.  Wrote  one  once  called 
'The  Cathedral  Mystery.'  I  had  the  mur- 
dered man  discovered  lying  on  the  altar, 
with  the  green  light  from  a  stained  glass 
window  falling  on  his  face." 

Dr.  Christopher  made  a  grimace  of  dis- 
taste, while  Jack  Howell  exclaimed: 
"Wouldn't  that  put  your  hair  in  pompa- 
dour?" 

"The  story  was  founded  on  the  murder  of 
that  Catholic  priest  five  years  ago,"  Claver- 
ing  went  on.  "And  don't  forget,"  here  he 
brought  his  cane  down  on  the  Superintend- 
ent's desk  unsparingly,  by  way  of  emphasis, 
"that  it  was  /  who  caught  that  murderer 
after  the  police  had  given  up  the  case."  He 


THE  STENOGRAPHER        59 

paused  a  moment  for  effect,  his  little  eyes 
sparkling  with  enthusiasm,  then  suddenly 
drew  the  reins  over  his  pet  hobby.  "Mar- 
vellously interesting  thing,  the  pursuit  of 
criminals,  full  of  poetry  and  romance. 
Don't  you  think  so?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  flatly  rejoined  the  Super- 
intendent. 

"Then  you're  a  fool,"  snapped  the  crim- 
inologist,  "and  you'd  better  go  to  an  oculist 
and  get  your  point  of  view  readjusted." 

This  was  a  little  more  than  even  the  mild 
Dr.  Christopher  could  stand,  and  he  would 
have  liked  to  make  a  point  of  showing  Clav- 
ering  the  door,  had  not  Howell,  bubbling 
over  with  enjoyment  of  the  situation,  re- 
marked: "As  an  authority  on  crime  I  sup- 
pose that  you  have  already  cleared  up  this 
mystery  at  the  Beaumont?"  and  started 
everything  up  again. 

"Huh!  No  mystery  in  that,"  Clavering 
retorted,  "there  may  be  to  you,  and  a  lot  of 
pin-headed  detectives.  I  can  see  that. 
They'll  go  using  up  money  and  shoe-leather, 


60  THE  CONSPIRACY 

trying  to  find  the  woman  who  called  on  Mor- 
ton shortly  before  the  murder.  The  one 
they'd  better  find  is  that  stenographer. 
Mary  Had— Had— " 

"Mary  had  a  little  lamb,"  prompted 
Jack. 

"You  keep  still,"  yelled  the  author. 
"Mary  Had.  .  .  .  Well,  whatever  the  name 
is,  it  wasn't  her  real  name.  I  can  tell  you 
that." 

"Oh,  you  have  looked  into  that  affair  al- 
ready, have  you?"  inquired  the  Superintend- 
ent. He  could  not  conceal  his  interest  in 
this  latest  tragedy.  "Our  house  physician 
was  called  to  the  murdered  man's  room  not 
long  after  he  had  received  the  fatal  blow." 

"I  went  there  too,"  chuckled  Clavering. 
"The  police  put  me  out,  but  not  until  I  had 
made  a  few  observations  that  will  entirely 
escape  them,  with  their  blundering  methods. 
Idiots!" 

"You  think,  then,  that  it  was  the  stenog- 
rapher who  killed  Morton?" 

"I  know  it  was." 


THE  STENOGRAPHER        61 

"What  do  you  think  was  the  motive?" 
asked  the  Doctor. 

"Ah,"  ejaculated  Clavering,  warming  up 
to  this  question.  "The  motive?  That's 
where  they  all  fall  down.  All  except  me. 
That's  the  first  thing  I  get  hold  of.  She 
was  there  to  spy  on  him,  I  believe ;  to  get  in- 
formation." 

"What  makes  you  think  that?"  put  in 
Jack. 

The  question  brought  a  withering  look 
from  Clavering:  "Because  I've  got  a  little 
common  sense,  that's  why.  Some  one  had 
tried  to  pry  open  the  man's  desk,  and  all  the 
papers  in  the  drawers  had  been  disturbed, 
but  apparently  nothing  valuable  had  been 
taken.  That's  why." 

"Couldn't  the  woman  who  called  upon 
him  shortly  before  his  death  have  been  the 
one  that  went  through  his  papers?" 

"She  could  have  been,  but  she  wasn't.  I 
happen  to  know  that  Morton  escorted  her  to 
the  elevator.  The  police  didn't  find  that 
out, — but  I  did."  He  chuckled  over  his 


62  THE  CONSPIRACY 

sagacity.  "No,  sir,"  he  continued.  "That 
woman  was  his  friend,  an  Italian  or  a  Span- 
iard. No  one  at  the  hotel  knew  what  the 
man  was.  'A  Mr.  Morton  in  the  cutlery 
business,'  they  said.  Shucks!  Morton  is  an 
English  or  an  American  name,"  he  eluci- 
dated contemptuously.  "Did  you  ever  hear 
of  an  American  or  an  Englishman  wearing 
earrings?" 

"Earrings?"  exclaimed  Dr.  Christopher 
and  Jack  together,  puzzled  at  the  ques- 
tion. 

"Yes,  earrings!  I  examined  the  lobes  of 
the  dead  man's  ears,  and  there,  so  faint  that 
you  could  hardly  see  them,  were  the  marks 
of  old  earring  holes.  Mr.  Morton  noth- 
ing!" And  Clavering  went  on  with  a  dis- 
dainful shrug  of  his  shoulders :  "He  was  an 
Italian  or  Spanish  member  of  some  cunning 
gang.  The  Scarlet  Band  perhaps;  I  don't 
know  yet,  but  I  shall  find  out;  you'll  see!" 

"The  Scarlet  Band!"  exclaimed  Howell. 

"Yes,  the  Scarlet  Band,"  retorted  the 
novelist,  advancing  excitedly  upon  him.  "I 


THE  STENOGRAPHER        63 

suppose  you  are  one  of  those  smart  Alecks 
who  think  the  Scarlet  Band  is  a  myth." 

"Oh,  no,  I  don't,"  expostulated  Jack. 
He  had  dropped  his  bantering  tone  now  and 
spoke  earnestly.  A  sneaking  respect  for 
Clavering's  prowess  was  coming  out  in 
him. 

"Well,  it's  not  a  myth,  I  can  tell  you 
that,"  came  the  reassertion,  with  reiterating 
raps  on  the  cane.  "I've  written  four  stories 
about  the  Scarlet  Band,  all  of  them  founded 
on  facts.  Facts!" 

He  paused  to  look  over  the  pages  of  The 
Evening  Telescope,  lying  on  the  table  at 
Howell's  elbow. 

"H'm!"  he  exclaimed.  "Do  you  see 
that?"  pointing  with  his  cane  to  the  headlines. 
"  'Conspiracy  to  Kill  Victor  Holt.  Assist- 
ant District  Attorney  Receives  Threatening 
Letter  from  the  Scarlet  Band.'  Huh! 
What  do  you  make  of  that  now?"  he 
growled,  as  he  poked  the  paper  aside  with 
his  active  stick.  Up  and  down  the  room  he 
strode,  growling  like  a  dog  with  a  bone. 


64  THE  CONSPIRACY 

"Ha!  ha!"  he  croaked,  "If  those  fellows  got 
him—" 

"And  this  murder  at  the  Beaumont  then," 
reminded  Dr.  Christopher,  to  whom  the 
criminologist's  views  on  the  murder  were 
more  interesting  than  his  insinuations  as  to 
the  District  Attorney's  office.  "Why  did 
the  stenographer  have  to  kill  the  man? 
Wasn't  that  taking  pretty  big  chances  just 
to  get  a  bit  of  information?" 

This  question  Clavering  apparently 
weighed  a  moment  in  his  mind  before  he  an- 
swered. "I  don't  think  she  intended  to  kill 
him,"  he  said.  "She  stabbed  him  with  one 
of  his  own  sample  knives.  That  shows  that 
she  didn't  go  there  ready  armed." 

"That's  interesting,"  responded  Jack. 

"Then,  too,  my  examination  of  the  tele- 
phone in  his  room  bears  me  out  in  this  the- 
ory." 

"How's  that?" 

"The  desk  telephone,  which  I  discovered 
was  a  private  wire,  was  lying  on  the  floor  by 
the  dead  man.  What  does  that  show?  It 


65 

shows  that  he  had  been  using  it;  and  I 
learned  from  Central,  who  was  trying  to  get 
it  rung  off,  that  a  little  before  five  o'clock 
that  afternoon  Morton  called  up  the  Cafe 
Rossamano  on  his  private  wire  in  great 
haste.  Something  happened,  so  Central 
said,  and  the  receiver  fell." 

"Cafe  Rossamano!"  put  in  Jack  Howell. 
"Why!— I—" 

"Why!  What?"  demanded  Clavering, 
scenting  some  criticism  in  the  interruption. 

"Oh,  nothing,  nothing,"  replied  Jack,  try- 
ing to  look  as  if  the  words  Cafe  Rossamano 
conveyed  no  meaning  to  him  after  all. 

"Well,"  retorted  the  author  testily,  "the 
man  who  interrupts  with  'nothing'  is  a  hell 
of  an  addition  to  an  argument." 

Dr.  Christopher,  fearing  renewed  hostili- 
ties and  fascinated  by  the  novelist's  line  of 
deduction,  broke  in  again  and  urged:  "Go 
on!  Goon!" 

"And  another  thing  I  know,"  said  the  au- 
thor, easily  encouraged,  "is  that  he  was  try- 
ing to — " 


66  THE  CONSPIRACY 

But  at  this  critical  moment  in  the  argu- 
ment Miss  Towne  re-entered  the  room  with 
her  message. 

"Miss  Brown  will  see  you  in  the  ladies' 
reception  room,  Mr.  Clavering,"  she  said 
formally.  The  author  sheered  off  at 
once. 

"Oh!  She's  a  lady,  is  she?"  he  sneered. 
"I  don't  want  a  lady,  I  want  a  stenogra- 
pher." 

"But,  Mr.  Clavering!—" 

"Now  don't  give  me  any  arguments,"  he 
blustered.  "I  want  a  stenographer."  He 
started  to  follow  her,  but  reaching  the  al- 
cove where  the  Professor  sat,  he  paused  be- 
side his  chair:  "Hello,  Kaufman!  Got 
that  translation  ready  for  me  yet?"  he  de- 
manded in  passing. 

"Not  quite,  Mr.  Clavering.  I'm  working 
on  it  now." 

"Good  Lord!  While  you  are  digging  out 
a  paragraph,  I  could  write  a  cyclopedia!" 

"But,  Mr.  Clavering,  it  takes  time,  it 
takes  time!" 


THE  STENOGRAPHER        67 

"Yes,  and  by  the  looks  of  your  nose  it 
takes  rum,  I  should  say." 

With  this  graceful  and  tactful  sally,  veer- 
ing from  one  grievance  to  another,  the  novel- 
ist quitted  the  room,  and  Dr.  Christopher 
was  left  with  Jack  to  finish  the  speculations 
on  the  murder. 

"What  a  strange  character!"  observed  Dr. 
Christopher. 

As  for  Jack  Howell,  he  was  deep  in  his 
own  reflections.  The  Cafe  Rossamano! 
Clavering  said  that  the  murdered  man  had 
called  up  the  Cafe  Rossamano.  Could  the 
tragedy  at  the  Beaumont  be  linked  in  any 
way  with  his  own  strange  encounter  in  front 
of  the  Rossamano?  It  must  have  been  just 
shortly  after  the  murder  that  he  had  gone  to 
the  girl's  assistance  there.  Had  he  all  un- 
consciously been  sucked  into  the  whirlpool 
of  some  conspiracy?  What  could  he  do? 

"You'd  better  come  in  to  my  office  and  let 
me  try  to  make  that  hand  of  yours  more 
comfortable,"  said  Dr.  Christopher  pres- 
ently. "You  will  have  trouble  with  it  if  you 


68  THE  CONSPIRACY 

don't.  Come  this  way,"  he  added,  and 
opened  the  door  of  a  room  at  the  right. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Jack  appreci- 
atively. "I  shouldn't  mind  having  it  eased 
up  a  bit,  I  must  confess."  ) 

He  started  in  the  direction  of  the  doctor's 
office,  but  was  waylaid  by  Professor  Kauf- 
man with  "Excuse  me,  sir.  Could  you  let 
me  have  a  little  money?  I  am  obliged  to 
get  some  more  copy-paper  before  I  can  fin- 
ish Mr.  Clavering's  work,  and  he  won't  give 
me  any  until  it's  done." 

"Well,  there  you  are,"  said  Jack.  "That's 
for  copy-paper,  mind  you  now;  don't  come 
back  with  a  package." 

"Thank  you,  sir!  Thank  you,  sir,"  mum- 
bled Kaufman,  taking  his  hat  and  shuffling 
toward  the  door. 

Howell  looked  after  him  a  moment. 
"Poor  devil,"  he  exclaimed,  then  followed 
the  superintendent  into  his  office  and  closed 
the  door. 

It  was  certainly  a  relief  to  have  some  one 


THE  STENOGRAPHER        69 

patch  up  his  poor  hand  and  tend  it  a  bit. 
The  iodine  stung  awfully  at  first,  but  pres- 
ently the  fever  in  his  fingers  began  to  cool  a 
little  and  he  sensed  the  comforting  and  com- 
fortable sensation  with  true  gratitude. 
"Thank  you,  Doctor,"  he  announced  cheer- 
ily; "don't  you  forget  to  put  in  your  little 
bill  rendered  for  this  veterinary  service  now. 
Jack  Howell,  Telescope  Office — Oh,  yes 
you  must  now." 

The  doctor's  ministrations  over  he  re- 
turned to  the  living  room  again  and 
paused  a  moment  on  the  threshold.  The 
room  was  empty  and  deserted, — a  barren 
field,  he  thought,  for  any  more  writing  up  of 
Sunday  specials.  He  didn't  seem  to  be 
making  very  good  connections,  he  must  say, 
to-day.  No  one  was  there.  No  sound 
broke  the  stillness  anywhere,  save  the  tick- 
ing of  the  big-faced  clock  on  the  wall,  and — 
yes — hullo!  There  was  somebody  after  all, 
seated  at  the  telephone.  "By  Jove!"  ex- 
claimed Jack  quite  sotto  voce,  "the  girl  from 


70  THE  CONSPIRACY 

the  Rossamano!  The  girl  with  the  eyes! 
What  the  deuce  is  she  doing  here,  and  in  such 
a  state  of  excitement  too?" 

Half  instinctively,  more  in  the  spirit  of 
not  wishing  to  interrupt  than  of  eaves- 
dropping, he  drew  back  and  waited,  listen- 
ing. The  girl  held  her  face  very  close  to 
the  receiver  and  spoke  in  a  low,  hurried  tone. 

"Give  me  six-eight-seven  Chelsea. 
Hurry,  please!" -she  breathed  tensely  to  the 
unseen  Central.  All  the  time  she  kept 
glancing  toward  the  doors,  in  most  palpable 
suspense.  At  last  the  answer. 

"Is  that  you,  Uncle  Mark?  Quick, 
listen!  This  is  Margaret.  Has  Victor 
come  home  yet?  Oh,  no  word  from  him?" 

Jack  could  hear  her  almost  sobbing. 

Her  ear  was  so  close  to  the  transmitter 
that  she  could  not  hear  the  slight  squeak  of  a 
board  beneath  his  foot  and  still  Jack  listened. 
His  impulse  was  to  advance  with  assurance 
and  claim  acquaintance  with  her,  but  at  her 
next  words,  uttered  in  an  agonised  tone,  he 
paused  again. 


THE  STENOGRAPHER        71 

"There  is?  Forme?  With  the  red  band? 
My  God!  How  did  it  come?  By  messen- 
ger? Bring  it  to  me  at  once.  The  Refuge, 
16  Irvington  Street.  Come  yourself  and  be 
careful !  Have  you  seen  the  Evening  Tele- 
scope? Yes.  It's  true.  I  can't  explain. 
I—" 

Then  at  last  she  seemed  to  sense  a  pres- 
ence in  the  room  and  stopped  abruptly, 
hanging  up  the  transmitter  with  a  trembling 
hand,  not  daring  to  look  around. 

Howell  saw  a  tell-tale  crimson  flame  over 
the  pallid  face,  heard  her  tense  breathing  as 
she  hastily  seized  a  pencil  and  made  a  pre- 
tence at  writing.  He  even  thought  he 
caught  the  quivering  of  her  eyelids.  Poor 
thing ! 

Who  was  she?     What  was  the  trouble? 

A  suspicion  that  had  been  forming  in  his 
brain  while  she  was  at  the  telephone,  flared 
now  to  conviction.  Was  she  Mary  Had- 
field,  the  girl  wanted  for  the  murder  of  Mor- 
ton? Could  it  be  possible,  this  slip  of  a 
girl?  Then  the  instincts  of  the  reporter 


72  THE  CONSPIRACY 

who  scents  a  scoop  seized  him  for  a  mo- 
ment, despite  his  sympathy.  What  a 
chance!  If  she  were  the  murderess  and  he 
should  be  the  first  to  detect  her — What  a 
scoop ! — 

He  advanced  a  step  or  two  toward  her 
"Well?"  he  said,  looking  fixedly  at  her, 

The  girl  raised  her  head  and  gave  him 
back  the  look  bravely.  No  sound  came  from 
her  dry  lips.  Her  face  was  as  white  as  the 
paper  on  the  desk  before  her,  but  no  fear 
showed  in  her  eyes,  and  there  was  no  tremor 
or  trembling  in  any  feature. 

"Well?"  said  Jack  again  nonchalantly. 
"What  can  I  do  for  you?" 


"'WELL?'  HE  SAID,  LOOKING  FIXEDLY  AT  HER.' 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  NEW   CONSPIRATOR 

"WHO  are  you?"  asked  the  girl  presently, 
in  a  tone  of  such  composure  that  it  brought 
a  smile  to  the  reporter's  lips  in  spite  of  him- 
self. 

"She's  a  cool  one  anyway,"  Jack  thought. 
Advancing  a  step  nearer  to  her  he  answered : 
"I  don't  know  yet.  But  I  think— I  think 
I'm  your  friend.  I'm  not  sure  though." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  demanded. 

Howell  paused  a  moment,  then  said 
significantly:  "You'd  better  tell  me  all 
about  it,  don't  you  think,  if  I'm  to  be  your 
friend?" 

With  an  almost  imperceptible  start  the 
girl  turned  to  the  papers  on  the  desk  again, 
as  if  to  sort  them  out  and  turn  the  subject. 
"I  really  don't  know  what  you  are  talking 

about,"  she  said.     There  was  even  a  tinge  of 

73 


74  THE  CONSPIRACY 

amused  tolerance  in  the  tone  that  she 
achieved. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  do,"  went  on  the  relentless 
Jack.  His  pride  was  pricked  by  that  last 
cool  parry ;  he  would  break  down  her  guard. 
Lowering  his  voice  he  took  a  sudden  resolu- 
tion, and  lunged  the  accusation:  "You 
killed  that  man  at  the  Hotel  Beaumont, 
didn't  you?"  He  watched  the  effect  of  his 
thrust  narrowly.  The  uncontrollable  look 
of  terror  that  for  an  instant  made  ghastly 
the  already  pale  face,  made  him  wince  de- 
spite himself. 

"It's  not  true,"  came  the  hoarse  denial. 
"I  have  just  come  here  from  Chicago." 

"Oh,  no,  you  haven't !"  began  Jack. 

"I  tell  you  I  have,"  countered  the  girl, 
struggling  vainly  to  give  conviction  to  her 
words. 

Howell  took  a  copy  of  the  Evening  Tele- 
scope from  his  pocket  and  rattled  it  osten- 
tatiously. "What  was  it  that  you  told  your 
Uncle  was  true  in  the  Telescope?"  he  de- 
manded. 


A  NEW  CONSPIRATOR        75 

She  shrank  back  at  that,  then  made  a  des- 
perate effort  for  control.  "I  was  talking 
about  something  quite  personal,"  she  pro- 
tested weakly. 

"Oh,  no,  you  weren't.  You  were  talking 
about  this."  He  thrust  the  paper  with  its 
accusing  murder  head-lines  before  her 
startled  eyes  and  watched  her. 

"I'll  not  endure  your  insults  any  longer!" 
the  girl  retorted,  regaining  her  poise  with  an 
incredible  effort,  in  spite  of  her  terror  and 
anguish  of  spirit.  She  rose  with  imperious 
dignity  and  made  as  if  to  leave  the  room. 

"Wait!"  called  Jack.  His  tone  was 
softened  now.  What  a  valiant  soul  she  was, 
he  thought,  after  all.  Why  should  she  be 
in  peril  from  him?  Was  it  his  business  to 
hunt  her  down,  to  pursue  a  defenceless  girl 
because  she  was  at  his  mercy  before  he  really 
knew  her  story?  She  was  no  ordinary 
criminal,  he  could  see.  Why  had  she  com- 
mitted murder,  if  she  had  committed  it?  It 
was  his  business  to  find  out  that  before  he 
sentenced  her. 


76  THE  CONSPIRACY 

He  changed  his  tactics,  and  said  gently: 
"See  here.  I've  got  a  hunch  that  you're  in 
wrong.  Of  course  you  may  question  my 
right  to  talk  to  you  as  I  do,  but  you  know  I'm 
not  quite  a  stranger,  am  I?  We've  met  be- 
fore, I  think.  Don't  you  remember?" 

She  did  remember,  he  could  see,  but  would 
not  say  so;  perhaps  this  friendliness  on  his 
part  was  but  another  attempt  to  trap  her 
into  a  confession,  she  might  think.  She 
must  be  careful. 

"No,"  she  replied,  again  looking  directly 
into  his  eyes;  "I  have  never  seen  you  be- 
fore." 

"No?"  smiled  Jack.  "Well,  perhaps  my 
face  isn't  one  to  get  matineed  on ;  but  as  for 
me  I've  got  a  memorandum  of  our  meeting 
in  this  nice  little  bunch  of  forget-me-nots 
here."  He  drew  his  bruised  and  swollen 
hand  from  his  pocket  and  held  it  out  for  in- 
spection. 

"Oh — !"  She  gave  a  little  crooning  cry, 
but  again  she  checked  herself. 

At  that  "Oh,"  all  tenderness,  solicitude 


A  NEW  CONSPIRATOR        77 

and  remorse  blended,  a  sound  that  could 
only  be  the  utterance  of  a  gentle  heart,  a 
great  wave  of  emotion  flooded  Jack's  frame 
and  brain.  It  was  impossible  that  a  girl 
who  looked  with  such  compassion  upon  an 
injured  hand  could  kill  a  man  in  cold  blood! 
No,  no,  his  brain  protested;  she  must  have 
been  justified  in  some  way!  There  must 
have  been  some  awful  provocation!  His 
man's  heart  took  up  arms  in  her  defence 
outright.  How  could  he  help  her?  But 
first  he  must  gain  her  confidence. 

"Come  on,"  he  said,  with  kindly  insist- 
ence. "Tell  me  everything." 

She  turned  to  him,  her  grey  eyes  question- 
ing his  as  though  to  read  his  very  soul,  and 
her  lips  parted.  But  before  she  could  utter 
a  word  the  bang  of  the  outer  door  sounded 
interruption.  Instantly  the  hunted  look 
was  on  her  face  again.  In  an  instant  too 
she  and  Jack  were  allies  together  against  a 
common  danger. 

"Get  busy!"  commanded  Howell  in  an 
undertone. 


78  THE  CONSPIRACY 

- 

The  note  of  warning  in  his  voice  made  her 
return  to  the  chair  at  the  desk,  blindly  obey- 
ing him,  she  knew  not  why.  The  outer  door 
of  the  room  opened,  but  she  dared  not  look 
to  see  who  entered. 

Howell,  meanwhile,  seated  at  the  opposite 
side  of  the  room,  saw  reflected  in  the  mirror 
before  him  the  burly  form  of  a  police  offi- 
cer framed  in  the  doorway.  He  caught  his 
breath.  So  soon!  What  was  the  man's  er- 
rand! Had  he  come  already  to  arrest  this 
poor  girl?  Well,  if  he  had,  he  shouldn't 
get  her.  She  was  his!  His  prize!  Fate 
hadn't  sent  him  first  to  the  Cafe  Rossamano, 
then  here,  for  nothing.  She  was  his.  His 
mind  was  clear  as  to  the  issue.  He  had 
been  sent  to  stand  between  this  girl  and 
ruin.  "And  by  Heaven  I'll  do  it!"  he  swore 
passionately. 

With  these  thoughts  surging  through  his 
mind,  he  greeted  the  officer.  "Hello,  Cap- 
tain Ryan,"  he  called  in  a  loud,  affable  tone, 
emphasising  the  new-comer's  rank  to  pre- 


A  NEW  CONSPIRATOR        79 

pare  his  companion  for  what  might  be  com- 
ing next. 

"Hello,  Howell!"  gruffly  responded  the 
officer,  in  whose  precinct  this  latest  murder 
had  been  committed ;  and  who  did  not  like  it. 
"What  are  you  doing  here?" 

"Oh,  getting  some  dope  for  a  Sunday 
special,  and  missing  all  the  good  things," 
answered  Howell  disgustedly.  By  giving 
special  emphasis  to  "missing  all  the  good 
things,"  he  was  hoping  to  get  some  inkling 
of  Ryan's  errand,  and  start  communica- 
tions. 

"Well,  you  missed  a  good  thing  this  after- 
noon, all  right,"  said  the  wearer  of  the  blue 
coat,  taking  the  bait  in  a  tone  of  satisfaction. 
He  didn't  always  like  reporters;  they  were 
always  butting  in,  he  said;  but  he  tolerated 
this  one  because,  as  he  told  Howell,  "he 
liked  his  comedy." 

"Got  any  new  dope  yet  on  that  Beaumont 
murder,  Captain?"  inquired  Jack  in  a  casual 
tone. 


80  THE  CONSPIRACY 

"No.  But  I'll  have  some  soon.  Who's 
in  charge  here?" 

As  he  asked  this  question  the  white  cat, 
which  had  been  roaming  about  the  room  in  a 
disturbed,  restless  fashion,  approached  Mar- 
garet, and  rubbing  against  her  skirt,  gave  a 
spring  and  landed  on  the  desk  in  front  of 
her,  settling  on  its  haunches  and  gazing  with 
its  emerald  and  sphinx-like  eyes  upon  the 
officer  of  the  law.  With  a  sudden  fright- 
ened longing  for  warmth  and  comfort,  the 
girl  put  her  hand  softly  on  the  animal's 
back  and  stroked  it.  A  prodigious  yawn 
was  the  only  recognition  the  cat  made  of  her 
touch ;  then  it  settled  back  again  to  its  steady 
gaze  at  Ryan. 

"Who's  in  charge  here?"  he  repeated,  and 
nodded  his  head  in  the  direction  of  the  girl 
at  the  desk.  "That  young  lady  the  bureau 
of  information?" 

Surprised  at  this  sudden  turn  of  affairs, 
Margaret  was  nevertheless  quick  to  see  the 
solution  it  might  hold  for  her.  She  glanced 


A  NEW  CONSPIRATOR        81 

toward  Howell,  who,  standing  behind  the 
officer,  gave  her  an  encouraging  nod. 

"Yes,"  she  replied  sweetly.  "What  can 
I  do  for  you?" 

"How  long  have  you  been  on  duty?"  de- 
manded Ryan  sharply. 

"She  was  here  when  I  came  in  at  about 
four-thirty,"  put  in  Howell  quickly. 

"Four-thirty?"  repeated  the  officer. 

Margaret  had  taken  her  cue. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  promptly,  "I  think 
it  was  just  about  four-thirty." 

"Was  it  you  who  answered  the  phone 
when  they  called  up  from  Headquarters  a 
while  ago?" 

"Yes." 

Howell  watched  the  girl  breathlessly, 
ready  with  a  signal  if  she  needed  it.  With 

ti 

a  wisdom  born  of  fear  she  avoided  answer- 
ing him  with  her  eyes. 

"Any  one  entering  from  the  street  would 
be  seen  by  you?" 

"Yes,  Captain."  She  answered  now 
without  hesitation. 


82  THE  CONSPIRACY 

Howell's  clenched  hands  relaxed.  "Great 
Scott!  But  she's  a  corker!"  he  thought  fer- 
vently. 

"You  told  Headquarters  over  the  phone 
that  you  had  never  placed  from  your  em- 
ployment bureau  a  stenographer  by  the 
name  of  Mary  Hadfield?" 

"No,  we  have  no  such  name  on  our  list." 

"Sure?"  demanded  Ryan  in  his  most  in- 
quisitorial tone. 

"I  am  positive,"  was  the  decided  answer. 

"Well,  if  a  woman  who  looks  at  all  sus- 
picious should  come  in  here  to-night,  detain 
her  and  notify  me  at  once.  I  can't  give  you 
a  description  of  her,  because  she'd  only  been 
in  Morton's  employ  a  few  days,  and  those 
boneheads  at  the  Beaumont  don't  seem  to 
know  what  the  skirt  looked  like.  But  we 
want  her,  and  we'll  get  her  if  I  myself  have 
to  investigate  every  employment  bureau  in 
New  York  City.  So  long,  Howell." 

He  turned  away  and  Margaret  gave  a 
sigh  of  relief  at  being  freed  if  only  for  a 
moment  from  the  relentless  look  he  had  fixed 


A  NEW  CONSPIRATOR        83 

on  her  during  his  colloquy.  Then  she  grew 
rigid  again  as  she  heard  the  young  man  ask- 
ing Captain  Ryan:  "Oh,  it's  the  stenogra- 
pher you're  looking  for,  is  it?  Do  you  think 
she's  the  one  who  killed  Morton?" 

"Naw,"  replied  the  Captain,  disgusted 
with  the  supposition.  "The  woman  who 
killed  Morton  is  the  Spanish  dame  that 
called  on  him  about  four  o'clock." 

"Oh,  that's  the  idea,  is  it?"  exclaimed 
Howell,  as  if  tremendously  impressed. 

"Why,  sure,"  continued  Ryan  patronis- 
ingly.  "It's  the  old  jealousy  stuff.  But 
if  the  stenographer  was  there  when  she 
called,  she  can  give  us  a  description  of  the 
foreigner,  can't  she?" 

"Oh,  I  see.  Of  course  you're  anxious  to 
find  her,  yes.  Well,  I  hope  you  get  her," 
said  Howell  heartily. 

"Oh,  we'll  get  her  all  right,"  retorted  the 
Captain,  adding  with  a  half  sneer  of  vindi- 
cation, "The  Police  Department  ain't  as  rot- 
ten as  you  newspaper  guys  try  to  make  it 
out." 


84  THE  CONSPIRACY 

"Oh,  I  say!"  expostulated  Howell,  as  a 
loyal  member  of  the  maligned  press. 

"You  say!  do  you?"  sneered  Ryan. 
"Every  newspaper  in  town  is  panning  us," 
he  added  with  a  snarl.  "That  nut,  Victor 
Holt,  started  it.  Everything  was  all  right 
till  he  butted  in.  To  hear  Holt  talk  you'd 
think  there  wasn't  an  honest  policeman  in 
New  York." 

"Well,"  said  Howell,  who  was  in  sympa- 
thy with  the  Assistant  District  Attorney,  "is 
there?" 

"There  you  go!"  angrily  retorted  Ryan, 
and  then  went  on  in  a  querulous  tone. 
"Now  what  chance  have  we  got,  with  every 
one  against  us?  We  didn't  do  nothing  to 
Holt.  He  got  sore  because  every  man  in 
the  department  wouldn't  give  up  all  his 
time  to  chasing  those  White  Slave  fellers. 
We've  got  a  few  other  things  to  attend  to 
besides  that." 

"Of  course  you  have,"  agreed  Jack.  "So 
that's  why  Holt  turned  you  down  and  took 
on  the  Byrnes  men,  eh?"  he  questioned. 


A  NEW  CONSPIRATOR        85 

Howell,  while  seeking  information,  was  not 
innocent  of  the  intention  of  getting  back  at 
the  Department  for  its  malice  and  disloyalty 
to  Holt,  whom  he  admired. 

"Yes,  he  took  on  the  Byrnes  men,"  as- 
sented Ryan,  then  added  with  a  chuckle  of 
contempt,  "and  a  hell  of  a  lot  of  good  they'll 
do  him.  Did  you  see  in  the  paper  where 
Holt  got  a  letter  from  that  Scarlet  Band 
bunch?" 

"Yes,  I  saw  that." 

"Well,  I  hope  they  get  him.  Serve  him 
right!"  muttered  the  officer  vindictively,  as 
he  started  to  leave  the  room. 

A  determination  to  keep  in  touch  with  any 
information  the  Captain  might  acquire  con- 
cerning the  Beaumont  affair,  prompted  Jack 
to  speak  again. 

"Oh,  by  the  way,  Captain,"  he  suggested, 
"you  know,  as  I  was  down  here  refuging,  I 
wasn't  in  on  this  murder  story.  If  you  get 
any  good  stuff  slip  it  on  me,  will  you?" 

He  rather  ostentatiously  drew  a  bill  from 
his  pocket  as  he  spoke, 


86  THE  CONSPIRACY 

Ryan  saw  the  bill,  but  drew  up  his  six  feet 
with  dignity  and  glared  at  the  insult  to  his 
uniform.  "What  do  you  take  me  for?"  he 
demanded,  mortally  offended.  "We  cut  all 
that  out  long  ago,  you  know  that.  Nothing 
doing!" 

"Oh,  no  offence,"  said  Howell  apologetic- 
ally, and  rather  deliberately  dropped  the  bill 
on  the  carpet. 

Ryan  turned  to  Margaret  with  a  parting 
injunction.  "Don't  forget  what  I  told  you, 
Miss,  if  anything  new  turns  up  let  me 
know.  Good-night!" 

On  his  way  to  the  door  his  eye  fell  upon 
the  money.  "Hello!"  he  called,  as  he 
stooped  and  picked  up  the  seductive  yellow- 
back. "Some  one's  dropped  a  bill  here.  Is 
it  yours?"  he  asked,  turning  to  Margaret. 
The  girl  shook  her  head.  "Yours?"  he 
asked,  giving  the  reporter  a  quizzical  stare. 

"Oh,  no,  no,"  the  latter  answered  with  a 
look  at  the  officer  which  suggested  the  doc- 
trine of  losers  seekers,  finders  keepers. 
Ryan  was  not  slow  to  catch  its  import. 


A  NEW  CONSPIRATOR        87 

"Why,  I  must  have  dropped  it  myself  when 
I  came  in,"  he  said  and  slipped  the  bill  into 
his  pocket. 

"Good-night!" 

From  the  window  Howell  watched  the 
Captain's  figure  out  of  sight.  Then  he 
turned  to  Margaret  again.  She  had  risen, 
and  seemed  wholly  unconscious  of  her  com- 
panion's scrutiny,  as  if  rapidly  reviewing  the 
events  of  the  last  few  minutes. 

"Well,"  she  said  at  last  bitterly,  "if  you 
learn'  that  stenographer's  story,  you  will 
have  your  scoop,  won't  you?" 

In  reply  Jack  only  fixed  his  eyes  upon  her 
with  an  approving  smile.  "Well,  you  got 
away  with  it!  It  was  immense.  You 
never  turned  a  hair,"  he  said  exultingly. 

"I  wish  you  would  go  away  and  let  me  go 
on  by  myself,"  replied  Margaret  anxiously. 

"Oh,  that  isn't  the  next  thing,"  said  Jack 
emphatically.  "You  know  you  are  waiting 
here  for  something  that  your  Uncle  is  to 
bring  you.  Yes,  I  heard  all  you  said  over 
the  phone.  Come  on,  now,"  he  pleaded. 


88  THE  CONSPIRACY 

"Tell  me  what  happened  at  the  Beau- 
mont." 

"I  have  never  been  at  the  Beaumont. 
What  right  have  you  to  question  me?"  she 
cried,  with  flashing  eyes. 

"What  right  have  you  to  sit  there  as  Miss 
Towne  and  answer  that  copper's  questions?" 
he  retorted.  He  had  dropped  his  coaxing 
tone  now;  he  realised  that  she  must  be 
driven  to  the  wall  if  he  hoped  to  get  the  truth 
from  her. 

"You — you — frightened  me.  I  didn't 
know — "  Her  lips  quivered  and  for  the 
first  time  the  tears  welled  up  in  her  eyes. 

He  understood,  and  again  he  changed  his 
tone.  "Come,  come  now,  little  girl.  Listen. 
I  know  you  did  it." 

"No,  no,  I  tell  you,  I  did  not!"  she  pro- 
tested vainly  in  a  low,  strangled  tone.  She 
glanced  fearfully  about  at  the  doors,  to  see 
if  any  chance  of  rescue  were  at  hand  from 
this  inquisition. 

"But  I  know  you  did."  He  paused  a  mo- 
ment. "And  I've  got  a  feeling  that  in  some 


A  NEW  CONSPIRATOR        89 

way  or  other  you  were  justified.  Now  if 
you're  really  on  the  level,  you'll  tell  me  all 
about  it  and  I  swear  I'll  help  you.  Now, 
now,  come — " 

"There  is  nothing  to  tell,"  she  persisted 
desperately. 

"If  that  copper  gets  hold  of  you  they'll 
give  you  the  third  degree,  you  know,"  hinted 
Jack.  He  spoke  meaningly.  "They'll 
never  let  up  on  you.  You  know  that,  don't 
you?  Now  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

In  answer  she  moved  towards  the  door. 
"I'm  going  to  leave  this  place  at  once,"  she 
sobbed  in  dismay. 

Howell  barred  her  exit.  "Oh,  no,  you're 
not,"  he  said. 

She  recoiled  from  him  trembling.  He 
realised  the  crisis  his  next  words  must  pre- 
cipitate, but  he  did  not  flinch. 

"Well?"  There  was  no  kindness  in  his 
voice  now,  nothing  but  an  unalterable  de- 
mand for  her  confession.  He  saw  her 
clenched  hands,  sensed  her  dogged  determi- 
nation not  to  surrender.  Then  like  the 


90  THE  CONSPIRACY 

hunter  who  sees  a  wounded  animal  at  bay 
and  fires  the  fatal  shot  to  end  its  struggles, 
he  launched  his  final  words. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  phone  the  police  and 
tell  them  where  they  can  find  that  stenogra- 
pher?" he  suggested.  He  watched  her  nar- 
rowly, and  caught  the  shiver  that  ran 
through  her  slight  body.  "Do  you?"  he  de- 
manded again,  as  she  made  no  sign.  "Very 
well!" 

He  reached  for  the  telephone.  The  click 
of  the  receiver  broke  her  rigid  calm.  With 
a  cry  she  turned  to  him,  shaken  at  last. 
"Don't  give  me  up!  For  God's  sake,  don't 
give  me  up!"  she  sobbed. 

Howell  placed  his  hand  over  the  trans- 
mitter to  shut  out  her  voice.  "Well?" 

"I'll  tell  you  everything,"  she  said  brok- 
enly. 

"Never  mind,  central,"  called  Howell  to 
the  waiting  operator.  "A  mistake;  I'm 
sorry." 

He  hung  up  the  receiver  again  and  turned 
to  Margaret. 


A  NEW  CONSPIRATOR        91 

"I  didn't  mean  to  kill  him,"  she  moaned. 
"I  swear  I  didn't  mean  to  kill  him."  She 
sank  into  a  chair  and  buried  her  face  in 
her  hands.  Her  body  was  shaken  by  con- 
vulsive sobs.  She  looked  so  fair  and  ten- 
der and  defenceless  that  Jack  could  have 
gathered  her  up  into  his  arms  and  petted 
her  into  quietude  like  a  wayward  child. 
He  put  his  hand  reassuringly  on  her 
shoulder. 

"Don't  lose  your  nerve  now.  Don't, 
you'll  need  it,"  he  said.  Cautiously  glanc- 
ing first  in  the  direction  of  the  doors,  he  drew 
a  chair  to  her  side.  He  hated  himself  for 
having  brought  this  added  anguish  and  tor- 
ture upon  her  head,  but  there  had  been  no 
other  way. 

He  waited  a  moment  for  the  sobs  to 
cease,  then  said  again:  "Now  tell  me 
quickly.  Take  a  chance  with  me,"  he 
urged.  "It's  the  only  one  you  have." 

She  hesitated.  "If  I  thought  I  could 
make  you  understand  ..." 

"Try.     Tell  me.     Who  was  the  man  who 


92  THE  CONSPIRACY 

grabbed  you,  down  there  this  afternoon  at 
the  Rossamano!" 

"One  of  the  gang." 

"What  gang?" 

"The  Scarlet  Band." 

"The  Scarlet  Band?"  he  gasped.  "Good 
God!  What  have  you  to  do  with  such  vil- 
lains?" 

She  clenched  her  white  hands.  "What 
have  I  to  do?  I've  been  fighting  them  for 
more  than  four  years." 

"You?  Fighting  them?  Why,  you  are 
only  a  child,"  expostulated  Jack.  Was  she 
trying  to  lead  him  into  a  new  false  scent? 

"A  child!"  she  looked  a  little  bitter  smile 
at  him,  then  continued:  "My  brother  and  I 
together  have  been  fighting  them  with  every 
ounce  of  our  strength." 

Now,  in  every  word,  in  every  syllable  she 
uttered,  Howell  caught  the  spirit  of  in- 
domitable courage  and  fortitude.  She  was 
magnificent.  He  believed  she  was  true. 

"Your  brother?  Who  is  your  brother?" 
he  queried. 


A  NEW  CONSPIRATOR        93 

"Victor  Holt." 

"Victor  Holt?"  he  repeated  in  amaze- 
ment. "What  Victor  Holt?" 

"The  Assistant  District  Attorney." 

"The  Assistant  District  Attorney? 
Your  brother?" 

Jack  Howell  could  not  have  been  more 
surprised  had  she  told  him  her  brother  was 
President  of  the  United  States.  "But  your 
name  is  Mary  Hadfield." 

"My  real  name  is  Margaret  Holt,"  she 
said  quietly. 

"Well,  for  Heaven's  sake!"  he  gasped. 
"Here.  Let  me  get  this.  This  thing  at 
the  Beaumont  had  some  connection  with 
the  work  you  and  your  brother  were  do- 
ing?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  look  here!"  he  said  eagerly.  "If 
you're  his  sister  you  can't  be  very  wrong. 
I'm  for  Holt  and  the  work  he  has  been  do- 
ing. I'm  for  him  strong,  and  he'll  win  out 
in  spite  of  these  coppers.  You're  telling  me 
the  truth  now,  sure?" 


94  THE  CONSPIRACY 

"The  truth,"  said  Margaret  Holt,  bit- 
terly. 

He  was  silent  a  moment  before  he  said, 
looking  at  her  with  grave  eyes:  "Well,  if 
you  have  the  Police  and  the  Scarlet  Band 
both  against  you,  you'll  need  the  help  of  God 
and  the  angels."  He  took  her  two  slender 
hands  in  his  as  though  she  were  the  lady  of 
his  colors,  to  whom  he  was  swearing  fealty. 
"I'm  going  to  help  you.  Come,  tell  me  the 
whole  story  now  of  this  four  years'  fight  you 
have  been  making.  How  did  it  begin?" 

And  Margaret  Holt,  turning  her  lovely 
head  from  Howell  until  he  could  see  only  the 
coiled  mass  of  her  hair  and  the  bit  of  white 
neck  between  it  and  her  gown,  began  her 
story.  With  fingers  clasping  and  unclasp- 
ing she  told  it  all,  not  sparing  it,  told  it  with 
hesitations  and  interruptions,  falteringly, 
but  quite  truly,  as  she  felt  his  sympathy  and 
wish  to  help.  It  was  not  a  pretty  story,  and 
it  was  not  told  with  art  or  gloss,  but  the  cruel 
circumstances  of  it  wrought  for  sympathy. 
Fashioned  of  the  raw  facts  of  life  it  made 


A  NEW  CONSPIRATOR        95 

even  Jack  Howell  wince,  hardened  as  he  was 
to  the  crimes  and  passions  of  mankind ;  made 
him  wince  even  while  he  loved,  and  could  al- 
most have  wept  with  the  keenness  of  his  com- 
passion for,  the  teller  of  it. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MARGARET'S  STORY 

MARGARET'S  story  began  in  quiet  country 
ways  and  pastoral  moods  to  end  in  city 
filth  like  many  another  poor  girl's  tale  be- 
fore it.  It  began  on  a  lovely  day  in  June, 
when  a  brother  and  sister  stood  in  the  rail- 
way platform  in  the  little  town  of  Chester, 
up  in  Maine. 

Victor  Holt  was  a  sturdy,  wholesome  fel- 
low of  five  and  twenty.  Margaret,  who 
stood  beside  him,  with  tears  in  her  wonder- 
ful grey  eyes,  was  a  slight  girl  of  seventeen, 
to  whose  cheeks  the  Maine  breezes  had  given 
the  bloom  of  roses.  The  parting  for  these 
two  was  very  hard,  especially  for  Margaret, 
who  was  to  be  left  behind.  New  York 
sounded  very  distant  and  remote  to  her  that 
day,  and  Victor  had  been  a  devoted  brother 
that  she  would  sadly  miss.  Their  parents 

96 


MARGARET'S  STORY          97 

had  died  when  they  were  still  little  things, 
and  even  as  a  boy  he  had  assumed  the  re- 
sponsibilities of  a  man  over  her  life  and 
keeping,  and  she  could  hardly  bear  to  have 
him  go.  Uncle  Mark,  too,  who  had  lived  in 
New  York  for  many  years,  had  tried  to  dis- 
suade him  from  entering  a  field  where  influ- 
ence and  money  and  new  conditions  counted 
so  much  towards  success;  but  Victor  had 
answered,  "I  know  that  I  have  neither  money 
nor  pull,  but  I  feel  that  I  shall  win  out,  and 
anyhow  I  can  take  a  good  licking." 

As  the  distant  whistle  sounded  through 
the  hills,  Margaret's  hand  gripped  her 
brother's  more  closely.  "It's  hard  to  have 
you  go,  Victor,"  she  said,  with  difficulty 
steadying  her  voice,  "but  I  know  that  it  is 
for  the  best  and  that  you  will  succeed.  I 
just  know  that  you  will.  You  can't  help 
it." 

"Succeed!  Of  course  I  shall,  honey,  and 
it  won't  be  long  before  I  send  for  you  to 
come  to  New  York  to  keep  house  for  me," 
Victor  replied  proudly.  And  Margaret's 


98  THE  CONSPIRACY 

face  had  brightened  wonderfully  at  the  pros- 
pect. 

With  a  heavy  heart  Margaret  during 
those  first  days  returned  to  old  Judge  Haw- 
ley's  office,  where  she  made  herself  useful  as 
his  stenographer.  Her  brother  had  read 
law  there,  and  the  kindly  old  man,  who  had 
been  a  dear  friend  of  their  father,  had  made 
them  realise  the  interest  and  love  and  care 
that  he  should  always  feel  for  -these  children 
of  his  old  associate.  As  Margaret  came  into 
the  office  to  resume  her  work,  the  Judge,  no- 
ticing the  expression  of  loneliness  in  her 
eyes,  gave  her  a  friendly  little  tap  on  the 
shoulder  and  exclaimed:  "Now  don't  you 
worry  about  Victor!  He's  bound  to  win 
out.  He's  a  clean  boy  and  that  means  a 
healthy  mind;  he'll  succeed,  he'll  succeed. 
Lord!  but  you'd  know  that  to  look  at  his 
face."  And  as  the  old  man  thought  of  the 
inflexible  decision  of  the  boy's  mouth,  he 
chuckled  to  himself  again.  "He'll  succeed 
all  right." 

And  then  before  long  there  was  Victor's 


MARGARET'S  STORY          99 

first  letter.  He  had  taken  an  office  down 
town  and  had  hung  out  his  shingle.  "VIC- 
TOR HOLT,  ATTORNEY  AT  LAW." 
"It  looks  great,"  he  wrote,  "but  Uncle  Mark 
can't  see  it  with  a  telescope.  And  now  grasp 
your  chair  and  be  prepared  for  a  shock.  I 
have  a  client !  A  regular  client !  My  .cli- 
ent's name  is  John  McKimmell,  and  Uncle 
Mark  tells  me  that  he  is  a  well-known  man 
here!"  He  closed  his  letter  with :  "If  only 
I  had  you  here  with  me,  Sis.  Well,  if  good 
fortune  continues,  it  won't  be  long  before  we 
are  together  again.  Shouldn't  I  like  to 
see  you  togged  out  in  some  of  the  fine 
feathers  I've  seen  in  the  Fifth  Avenue  shop 
windows!  Why!  I've  spent  my  first  one 
hundred  four  times  on  you  already." 

Again  and  again  the  girl  read  the  precious 
letter:  she  laughed  at  what  he  wrote  about 
the  Fifth  Avenue  fashions.  It  was  just  like 
Vic  to  think  of  her.  She  knew  that  he  would 
like  to  spend  his  last  penny  on  her ;  and  that 
night  with  the  letter  tucked  under  her  pillow 
she  prayed  for  his  success  and  for  the  day 


100  THE  CONSPIRACY 

that  should  end  their  separation.  She 
drifted  off  into  the  land  of  dreams  at  last 
where  a  venerable  old  gentleman,  dressed  in 
the  most  fluffy  and  diaphanous  of  Parisian 
gowns,  chased  her  brother,  who  shed  guns  at 
every  leap,  into  a  house  which  flaunted  in 
every  window,  the  legend  For  Sale. 

The  winter  wore  on,  each  week  bringing  a 
newsy  letter  from  New  York.  Victor  was 
getting  on.  Mr.  McKimmell,  his  client,  was 
pleased  with  his  work  and  had  given  him 
more.  His  association  with  a  man  of  such 
influence  brought  him  in  touch  with  other  in- 
terests and  led  to  more  work,  work  for  which 
he  had  a  special  aptitude.  What  little 
money  he  was  making  over  expenses  he  was 
saving,  he  wrote,  towards  furnishing  an 
apartment  for  himself  and  Margaret  to 
share. 

There  were  many  things  to  look  back 
on  in  those  days,  as  for  instance  when  the 
expressman  brought  to  that  little  Maine 
town  a  wonderful  box  for  Margaret,  con- 
taining her  first  evening  gown  and  a  note 


MARGARET'S  STORY        101 

from  Victor.  He  had  seen  it  in  a  shop  win- 
dow, he  said,  and  it  looked  like  her,  so  that  he 
couldn't  resist  the  temptation  to  buy  it  for 
her ;  she  was  to  have  her  photograph  taken  in 
it  and  send  him  the  picture  at  once. 

Summer  came  and  in  its  train  a  disap- 
pointment for  Margaret,  for  Victor  wrote 
that  he  should  be  unable  to  spend  his  vacation 
with  her  as  he  had  planned ;  that  things  were 
coming  his  way  and  he  must  stay  "right  on 
the  job."  There  was  just  a  flash  of  sun- 
light in  the  closing  lines:  "If  all  goes  well 
I  shall  soon  be  able  to  take  that  little  apart- 
ment and  have  you  come  to  me."  The  hope 
that  these  words  inspired  lingered  with  her 
all  the  long  Summer  days. 

It  was  October  when  at  last  the  summons 
came  from  Victor  to  join  him  in  New  York. 
"Dear  Sis,"  he  wrote,  "pack  up  your  duds 
and  come  on.  I've  taken  an  apartment  up 
on  One  hundred  and  fourteenth  Street; 
three  rooms  and  a  kitchenette." 

Uncle  Mark  was  going  to  live  with  them 
and  stand  half  the  rent.  The  place  was 


102  THE  CONSPIRACY 

small  and  the  three  of  them  would  look  like 
a  crowd  in  it.  She  was  to  take  the  Bar  Har- 
bor express  from  Ellsworth,  and  Victor  was 
to  meet  her  on  the  arrival  of  the  train  at  the 
Grand  Central  Station  in  New  York.  She 
was  to  come  as  soon  as  the  Judge  could  find 
some  one  to  replace  her  in  the  office. 

A  few  days  later  she  watched  Judge 
Hawley  from  the  city-bound  train  until  he 
became  a  mere  speck  in  the  distance.  The 
receding  vision  of  her  native  hills  brought  a 
mist  to  her  eyes.  She  was  going  forth  with 
such  confidence,  such  glowing  faith  in  life 
and  human  nature.  Alas,  how  soon  were 
the  realities  of  life,  the  latent,  lurking  evil 
things  of  life  in  a  great  city,  to  dim  her 
youthful  trustfulness ! 

The  journey  was  one  long  series  of  new 
adventures  for  the  little  county  girl.  First 
there  had  been  the  parting  with  her  old 
friend,  Judge  Hawley,  though  the  sadness 
of  that  had  been  relieved  a  little  by  the  won- 
derful watch  that  he  had  placed  in  her  hand 
when  he  said  good-bye  to  her.  He  had  at 


the  same  time  given  a  greenback  to  the  Pull- 
man porter  and  charged  him  to  look  after 
her  comfort. 

The  hours  did  not  seem  long,  everything 
was  so  new  to  her  in  this  first  experience  of 
all  night  travelling.  She  enjoyed  her  break- 
fast in  the  dining  car,  with  its  corps  of  wait- 
ers in  spotless  white  coats  and  aprons,  who 
managed  their  loaded  trays  so  dexterously  in 
the  swaying  of  the  train.  She  enjoyed  the 
ever-changing  landscape,  and  when  darkness 
came,  pictured  to  herself  her  brother's  im- 
patience for  her  arrival.  She  wondered 
what  she  should  do  if  he  were  not  there  to 
meet  her ;  but  of  course  he  would  be. 

When  the  baggage  transfer  agent  came 
through  the  car,  following  her  brother's  in- 
structions, she  gave  him  her  check,  taking  the 
address  from  her  purse  to  be  sure  that  she 
made  no  mistake.  The  lights  along  the  track 
were  becoming  more  numerous  all  the  time. 
"Yes,  they  would  soon  be  there,"  the  porter 
told  her,  as  he  carefully  brushed  the  dust 
from  her  coat  over  the  bald  head  of  the 


104  THE  CONSPIRACY 

gentleman  in  the  next  seat  to  her.  Slowly 
the  train  pulled  into  the  great  dreary  sta- 
tion, and  the  tired  passengers  crowded  into 
the  aisles  in  their  eagerness  to  leave. 

Margaret,  clutching  her  little  satchel  in 
her  hand,  stepped  from  the  car  to  the  plat- 
form. Everywhere  the  porters  with  red  caps 
were  rushing  about  in  search  of  patrons. 
The  girl  had  expected  that  her  brother  would 
be  on  the  very  steps  of  the  car  to  meet  her, 
but  the  train  porter  laconically  told  her  no 
one  was  allowed  to  come  beyond  the  roped 
enclosure.  She  walked  on  a  little  bewil- 
dered, towards  the  expectant  group  of 
people  waiting  outside  the  train  gates,  and 
looked  for  Victor  among  the  crowd,  which, 
as  it  absorbed  the  incoming  travellers,  gradu- 
ally melted  away  but  did  not  resolve  itself 
into  her  brother.  He  was  not  there!  A 
great  wave  of  loneliness  swept  over  her,  and 
the  tears  gushed  to  her  eyes.  Where  was 
Victor?  The  station  seemed  so  immense 
and  she  such  an  atom  in  the  rush  of  people 
hurrying  by  her.  What  should  she  do? 


MARGARET'S  STORY        105 

Choking  back  her  tears,  she  inquired  of 
a  white-capped  official  if  there  was  any  other 
place  in  the  station  where  people  awaited  the 
arrival  of  passengers,  and  was  directed  to  the 
waiting  room  above.  Taking  fresh  courage 
she  finally  reached  the  place  designated,  los- 
ing her  way  once  or  twice  in  the  perfect  maze 
of  passageways  the  re-construction  of  the 
station  made  necessary. 

In  the  waiting  room  she  looked  anxiously 
all  about,  but  Victor  was  not  there  either. 
Now  thoroughly  frightened  she  decided  to 
take  a  cab  and  seek  the  address  her  brother 
had  given  her.  She  opened  her  satchel  to 
look  for  it,  but  alas,  the  purse  containing  her 
money  and  address  was  gone ;  she  must  have 
dropped  it  when  she  arranged  for  her  bag- 
gage transfer.  It  was  all  too  tragic.  She 
tried  to  recall  the  street  and  number.  Was 
it  One  hundred  and  seventieth  West,  or  One 
hundred  and  fortieth  West,  or  One  hundred 
and  forty  West  One  hundred  and  seventieth 
Street?  The  combinations  were  inexhausti- 
ble. The  more  she  thought,  the  more 


106  THE  CONSPIRACY 

jumbled  they  became.  She  thought  of  tele- 
phoning to  Victor's  office,  but  it  was  now 
after  seven.  He  would  not  be  there,  and 
anyway  she  had  no  money.  The  moments 
passed  and  still  her  brother  did  not  come. 
She  was  almost  panic-stricken  with  fear. 
She  hurried  back  to  the  train  levels  to  find  the 
porter  of  her  car;  he  might  have  picked  up 
her  purse.  But  she  reached  the  gate  where 
her  train  had  arrived,  only  to  learn  that  the 
cars  of  her  train  had  been  backed  out  and 
that  the  porter  was  off  duty.  She  was  told 
that  if  any  one  of  the  train  crew  had  picked 
up  her  purse  it  would  be  at  Room  528.  She 
hunted  for  Room  528,  but  found  the  halls 
dark  at  that  hour,  and  closed. 

Again  she  sought  the  waiting  room.  The 
place  was  no  longer  crowded,  but  still  there 
was  no  sign  of  Victor.  Once  she  thought 
she  saw  him,  and  moved  impulsively  for- 
ward, only  to  discover  that  it  was  a  stranger, 
who  smiled  at  her  and  called  her  "Sweet- 
heart." Frightened  and  angry  she  turned 
away,  seeking  the  ladies'  waiting  room, 


MARGARET'S  STORY        107 

where  she  thought  at  least  she  might  be  free 
from  annoyance. 

She  was  just  deciding  that  the  only  thing 
to  do  was  to  stay  where  she  was  until  morn- 
ing and  she  could  telephone  to  her  brother's 
office,  when  she  was  approached  by  a  middle- 
aged  woman,  modestly  dressed  and  of  a  most 
respectable  appearance,  who  apparently  was 
willing  to  be  of  some  assistance  to  her. 
Margaret  had  seen  her  in  the  main  waiting 
room  and  had  noticed  that  she  looked  at 
her  rather  curiously.  The  woman  seemed 
now  to  hesitate  before  speaking  to  the 
girl,  and  then  said,  gazing  at  Margaret's 
flushed  and  anxious  face  with  a  benev- 
olent smile,  "Are  you  looking  for  any 
one?" 

"Yes,"  the  girl  replied.  "My  brother. 
He  was  to  be  here  to  meet  me." 

"Who  is  your  brother?" 

"Victor  Holt.  He  is  a  lawyer  here  in 
New  York,"  said  Margaret. 

The  woman  gave  a  little  exclamation  of 
satisfaction. 


108  THE  CONSPIRACY 

"Well,"  she  exclaimed,  "I  thought  you 
must  be  his  sister,  but  I  wasn't  sure.  I 
might  have  known,  though,  you  look  so  much 
like  him." 

"You  know  my  brother?"  Margaret  asked 
eagerly. 

"Oh,  yes,  we  are  great  friends.  He  sent 
me  to  meet  you.  I've  been  looking  for  you 
ever  since  your  train  came  in,"  explained  the 
elder  woman. 

"Oh,  did  Victor  send  you  to  meet  me?" 
cried  Margaret,  in  great  relief. 

"Yes;  he  was  detained  himself  on  impor- 
tant business,"  the  woman  said. 

Margaret  was  so  relieved  that  no  suspicion 
ever  entered  her  head.  "Oh  I've  been  so 
worried,"  she  confided.  "It's  the  first  time 
I  have  ever  been  in  New  York,  and  I  seemed 
such  a  mite  in  the  crowd.  I  think  I  lost  my 
head.  I  could  have  gone  directly  to  the 
apartment,  but  my  purse,  containing  my 
brother's  address,  has  disappeared.  They 
had  taken  a  new  flat,  Victor  and  Uncle 
Mark,  and  I  have  been  awfully  stupid  about 


MARGARET'S  STORY        109 

remembering  the  number.  I  think  these 
numbered  streets  are  so  confusing  to  a 
stranger,  don't  you  ?  Poor  old  Judge !  I'm 
afraid  he  sent  his  telegram  too  late." 

"You  poor  child!  I  don't  wonder  that 
you  were  anxious,"  said  the  woman.  "But 
you  are  all  right  now,  aren't  you?"  She 
spoke  with  such  kindly  interest  that  Mar- 
garet felt  a  growing  sense  of  relief  in  being 
with  her. 

"What  did  you  do  with  your  luggage?" 
she  asked  presently. 

"I  gave  my  trunk  check  to  the  baggage 
agent  on  the  train.  Wasn't  that  right?" 
asked  Margaret. 

"Oh,  yes;  come  on!  We'll  take  a  taxi  and 
go  right  up  to  the  house.  It's  getting  late, 
and  your  brother  will  be  anxious." 

The  woman  led  the  way  out  of  the  station 
and  past  the  cab-stand.  "We  won't  take 
one  of  these,"  she  explained;  "they  are  a  lot 
of  robbers.  We  can  get  one  on  Forty- 
second  Street  for  half  the  money." 

As  they  walked  along  she  talked  pleas- 


110  THE  CONSPIRACY 

antly  with  Margaret,  and  in  such  an  ingra- 
tiating way  that  the  girl  placed  her  arm  in 
that  of  her  protector  and  chatted  excitedly 
about  her  journey  to  the  city  without  any 
further  thought.  She  did  not  see  the  woman 
exchange  glances  with  a  sinister-looking  man 
standing  at  the  entrance  to  the  station,  nor 
did  she  see  the  man  hurry  away  to  where 
a  limousine  waited  across  the  street  and 
hold  a  hurried  conversation  with  the  chauf- 
feur. .  ' 

"Oh,  there's  a  cab  over  there,"  said  the 
woman  as  she  piloted  Margaret  across. 
"Get  in,  my  dear,  I'll  tell  the  chauffeur 
where  to  go." 

Blindly  following  directions,  Margaret  got 
into  the  car  and  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  as  she 
sank  back  into  a  corner  of  the  comfortable 
seat.  She  was  tired  out  after  the  long  j  our- 
ney  and  the  excitement  of  her  arrival.  For 
a  moment  she  closed  her  eyes  from  sheer  ex- 
haustion. There  was  such  a  noise  and 
rumble  of  traffic  that  she  could  not  hear  what 
the  woman  was  saying  to  the  chauffeur, 


though  she  was  dimly  conscious  of  something 
strange  in  it. 

The  woman  got  in  herself  presently,  and 
the  chauffeur,  slamming  the  door  after  her, 
put  his  car  in  motion. 

"Is  it  very  far  from  here?"  questioned 
Margaret  weakly. 

"Oh,  no,  dear,  we'll  be  there  before  you 
know  it." 

The  swinging  car  turned  out  of  Forty- 
second  Street  and  into  Broadway,  and  Mar- 
garet had  her  first  glimpse  of  The  Great 
White  Way. 

They  sped  on  at  a  rapid  pace,  so  rapid 
that  once  even  the  woman  from  New  York 
knocked  on  the  window  to  the  chauffeur  to 
be  more  careful.  He  continued  recklessly 
notwithstanding.  Margaret  asked  her  com- 
panion if  it  were  not  dangerous,  but  Mrs. 
Watson,  as  the  woman  had  by  this  time 
named  and  introduced  herself,  took  little 
pains  to  reassure  her,  only  muttered  some- 
thing about  "that  fool  of  a  chauffeur." 
Finally  they  stopped  with  a  jerk  before  a 


112  THE  CONSPIRACY 

high  stone  house,  and  "the  fool  of  a  chauf- 
feur" alighted  and  opened  the  door  of  the 
limousine  for  them. 

"Here  we  are,"  said  Margaret's  com- 
panion. 

As  they  were  climbing  the  high  flight  of 
steps,  the  chauffeur  stopped  the  woman  with 
a  rough  demand  for  his  "rake-off,"  and  she 
handed  him  a  bill,  whereat  the  fellow  only 
grinned,  saying:  "Come  on,  now,  dearie. 
Come  across  with  another  five.  I'm  not 
taking  chances  at  this  game  for  nothing, 
you — "  An  additional  bill  slipped  into  his 
hand  shut  off  any  further  remarks. 

Margaret,  in  her  eagerness  to  see  her 
brother,  was  already  half  way  up  the  steps 
and  paid  little  heed  to  the  wrangle  between 
her  companion  and  the  driver.  She  had 
heard  of  grasping  cabbies,  before.  The 
woman  followed  her,  and  opening  the  door 
explained  to  her  that  her  brother's  apart- 
ment was  on  the  fourth  floor.  It  had  just  oc- 
curred to  Margaret  that  in  her  "greenness" 
and  excitement  she  had  entirely  omitted  to 


MARGARET'S  STORY        113 

thank  her  companion  and  protector,  Victor's 
friend.  She  turned  to  express  her  thanks 
and  make  polite  inquiries.  They  had 
reached  their  landing,  where  the  woman 
opened  a  door,  and  before  Margaret  had  time 
to  realise  her  intentions  pushed  her  violently 
into  the  room  and  turned  the  grating  key  in 
the  lock. 

It  had  all  happened  so  suddenly  that  even 
up  to  that  moment  Margaret  had  suspected 
nothing.  She  did  not  grasp  the  situation  all 
at  once.  Then  came  a  flash  of  understand- 
ing. This  was  not  her  brother's  apartment. 
She  had  been  trapped.  In  her  terror  she 
cried  out  "Victor!  Victor!"  But  there  was 
no  answer  anywhere. 

She  tried  to  find  the  door,  but  whichever 
way  she  turned,  the  dense  mystery  of  dark- 
ness baffled  her.  She  groped  about  until 
finally  her  fingers  touched  the  cool  metal 
of  a  door-knob.  She  tried  to  make  the 
door  yield  to  her  struggles.  She  threw  her- 
self against  it,  a  furious  sense  of  frustration 
maddening  her.  She  beat  at  the  panels  till 


114  THE  CONSPIRACY 

her  hands  were  bruised  and  bleeding,  but  to 
no  avail.  She  never  knew  how  long  she 
fought  for  freedom,  but  gradually  her 
strength  gave  way  and  she  sank  to  the  floor 
of  her  prison  sobbing  in  a  paroxysm  of  ter- 
ror.- Who  was  this  woman  who  had  brought 
her  to  this  house?  What  place  was  it? 
What  was  the  meaning  of  it  all? 

Listening  intently,  she  caught  the  sound  of 
voices  in  the  hall — coarse  voices  and  words 
followed  by  shrieks  of  laughter.  Gathering 
up  what  little  remaining  strength  she  had, 
she  made  another  frenzied  assault  upon  the 
door,  but  the  only  result  was  a  horrible, 
ominous  silence  that  seemed  to  settle  like  a 
pall  over  the  house. 

Then  slowly,  slowly  into  her  mind  crept 
the  meaning  of  it  all.  Her  very  heart  stood 
still  in  fear  and  horror.  She  remembered 
now  having  read  of  the  fate  of  girls  who  had 
been  lured  to  wicked  houses  and  been  com- 
pelled to  live  lives  of  shame  and  degradation 
in  them.  It  could  not  be  that  she — she, — 


MARGARET'S  STORY        115 

Margaret  Holt,  was  to  know  that  horror. 
She  must  be  dreaming! 

Then  the  wicked,  cunning,  busy  little 
sprite  of  imagination  sprang  to  life  and 
painted  in  lurid,  screaming  colours,  the  re- 
volting possibilities  of  her  fate.  Shudder 
after  shudder  shook  the  slender  body  until 
the  sleep  of  youth,  whom  neither  bolts  nor 
bars  can  lock  out,  dropped  over  her  beaten 
spirit  the  merciful  cloak  of  unconsciousness. 


A   WHITE   SLAVE 

THREE  weeks  dragged  by,  during  which 
Margaret  was  compelled  to  submit  to 
such  a  bondage,  to  treatment  so  atrocious 
and  inhuman,  that  those  who  become  its  vic- 
tims must  be  either  dragged  down  hardened 
into  the  pit  by  it,  or  choose  drink  or  drugs  or 
death  as  an  escape  from  infamy  and  torture. 

At  first  the  belief  that  her  brother  must 
come  to  her  rescue  kept  the  spark  of  hope 
alive,  but  as  the  interminable  days  wore  on 
without  any  word  or  relief  from  him,  even 
that  feeble  light  died  out  and  left  her  grop- 
ing in  the  darkness  of  despair.  The  thought 
of  escape  obsessed  her,  but  at  every  attempt 
she  made,  at  every  struggle,  the  guards  of 
her  prison  closed  in  more  securely  on  her. 

She  was  never  permitted  to  leave  the 
house.  An  enclosure  on  the  roof,  like  a 

116 


A  WHITE  SLAVE  117 

prison  yard,  was  her  only  means  of  taking  the 
air.  A  total  stranger  to  the  city,  she  could 
get  no  idea  of  location.  She  could  see  the 
street  below  her,  with  its  long  line  of  shut- 
tered dwelling  houses,  but  where  the  street 
led  to  or  what  it  was  she  had  no  idea.  Many 
times  she  was  tempted  to  throw  herself  from 
the  roof  upon  the  pavement  below,  but  each 
time  some  indefinable  power  had  kept  her 
from  taking  the  fatal  step. 

One  day  a  policeman  called  at  the  house 
and  Margaret  happened  to  be  in  the  hall. 
At  the  sight  of  the  bluecoat  her  heart  beat 
high  with  hope.  At  last!  The  law  would 
protect  her  and  punish  those  who  had  held 
her  to  this  iniquitous  servitude.  But  her 
agonised  appeal  for  protection  brought  only 
fresh  despair  and  disappointment.  The  po- 
liceman only  laughed  at  her  and  turned  her 
off. 

"What  have  you  to  kick  about?"  he 
smirked.  "Haven't  you  a  swell  home  here? 
Cut  out  your  baby  prattle  and  forget  it!" 

Escape  came  near  her  in  another  quarter, 


118  THE  CONSPIRACY 

too,  but  passed  her  by — came  in  the  shape  of 
a  pistol  that  she  found  by  chance,  and  put 
away  in  her  room.  She  would  put  an  end  to 
her  horrible  existence.  She  could  endure  no 
more.  God  would  understand.  With  a 
fervent  prayer  for  strength  and  courage,  she 
brought  from  its  hiding  place  the  little,  shiny 
revolver  that  a  man  had  dropped  in  the  hall 
the  night  before.  She  gazed  at  the  thing 
with  fascinated  eyes ;  it  was  the  only  key  that 
would  open  the  gates  to  freedom  and  im- 
penetrable eternity.  For  one  moment  the 
pendulum  of  indecision  swayed  between  life 
and  death. 

Then,  as  with  steady  hand  Margaret  raised 
the  pistol  to  her  temple,  the  door  burst  open, 
admitting  a  youth  of  not  more  than  twenty, 
whose  flushed  countenance  and  staggering 
steps  told  the  tale  of  some  protracted  de- 
bauch. Margaret  whirled  about,  hiding  the 
revolver  behind  her,  while  the  youth  stared 
at  her  with  a  silly  leer  about  the  corners  of 
his  sensuous  mouth.  The  girl  stood  like  a 
tigress  watching  him,  flaming  with  rebellion. 


A  WHITE  SLAVE  119 

To  her  surprise  he  only  reeled  back  against 
the  wall  and  whimpered  in  a  maudlin  tone: 
"Don't  be  cross  with  me,  dearie!  You  hurt 
my  feelings,  that's  what  you  do.  I  don't 
want  anything  of  you.  I  only  want  to  go  to 
sleep,  d'y  hear?  Go  to  sleep!  Beautiful 
sleep!  And  don't  wake  me  up  for  a  year!" 

As  he  spoke  he  removed  his  soiled  and 
rumpled  garments,  scattering  them  about  the 
room  in  every  direction,  until,  losing  his  bal- 
ance, he  fell  headlong  upon  the  bed,  and 
sank  quickly  into  a  drunken  stupor. 

Margaret  gave  a  long,  quivering  sigh  of 
relief,  as  she  realised  that  for  the  present  she 
was  safe  once  more.  Stealthily  she  returned 
the  revolver  to  its  hiding  place,  then  me- 
chanically began  to  gather  up  the  garments 
that  the  sleeping  man  had  scattered  on  the 
floor.  As  she  did  so,  a  sudden  thought 
vitalised  her  benumbed  brain.  At  last  she 
had  her  opportunity  for  escape!  She  bal- 
anced the  chances  of  success  or  failure.  It 
took  her  but  an  instant  to  decide.  God 
was  good !  It  must  be  success. 


120  THE  CONSPIRACY 

Stealing  to  the  bedside  she  bent  over  its 
prostrate  occupant  and  listened  to  his  heavy 
breathing.  She  shook  him  to  make  sure  that 
he  was  more  than  dozing.  Good!  She 
could  not  rouse  him. 

He  was  of  her  complexion,  with  black  hair, 
and  of  about  her  height,  she  noticed.  It  was 
all  providential. 

Hastily  slipping  out  of  her  gown,  she  put 
on  the  youth's  clothes  and  his  long  overcoat, 
over  them,  then  the  tall  silk  hat.  Her  reflec- 
tion in  the  mirror  satisfied  her  that  she  might 
elude  detection,  but  she  must  hide  her  hair 
beneath  the  tile.  There  was  such  a  mass  of 
it  that  try  as  she  would,  she  could  not  conceal 
it  at  first  beneath  the  hat,  and  only  by  close 
braiding  got  it  all  hidden  at  last. 

Passing  out  of  the  room  into  the  hall,  she 
listened  breathlessly.  The  house  was  still. 
Summoning  all  her  courage,  she  descended 
the  stairs,  lurching  as  she  proceeded,  in 
feigned  intoxication  in  case  any  one  should 
hear  or  see.  She  was  half  way  down  the 
last  flight,  when  the  opening1  of  the  door  of 


A  WHITE  SLAVE  121 

Mrs.  Dumont's  parlour  almost  stopped  the 
beating  of  her  heart  for  good  and  all. 

But  Mrs.  Dumont,  thrusting  her  frowsled 
head  into  the  hall,  only  gave  an  exclamation 
of  rage.  That  kid  had  been  deposited  in  her 
hallway  only  a  short  time  before  by  a  grin- 
ning chauffeur  and  she  ordered  him  thrown 
out ;  why  was  he  here  still?  Who  had  dared 
to  disobey  her  orders?  As  she  beheld  the 
reeling  figure  in  the  dimly  lighted  hall  she 
broke  into  a  storm  of  oaths  and  abuse,  and 
seizing  the  youth  by  the  shoulder  and  fling- 
ing open  the  door  pushed  him  out  vigor- 
ously herself,  exclaiming:  "You  get  out  of 
here  now!  Go  home,  and  don't  you  come 
here  drunk  again!  Do  you  hear?" 

In  another  moment  Margaret  found  her- 
self sprawling  on  the  side-walk  and  heard 
the  front  door  close  with  a  slam  behind 
her. 

Bruised  and  hurt  by  her  fall,  she  rose  to 
her  feet  and  ran  as  fast  as  her  legs  would 
carry  her;  in  what  direction  she  knew  not, 
she  had  but  one  idea — to  put  as  great  a  space 


122  THE  CONSPIRACY 

as  possible  between  her  and  that  awful 
house. 

She  had  covered  a  distance  of  some  two 
blocks  when  the  burly  form  of  a  policeman 
loomed  in  the  distance.  Once  she  would 
have  turned  confidently  to  the  blue-coat  for 
protection,  but  her  experiences  had  taught 
their  lesson.  Darting  into  a  doorway,  she 
crouched  in  its  shadow  in  breathless  suspense 
till  the  man  had  passed,  then  seeing  him  at  a 
safe  distance  from  her  she  started  again  on 
her  mad  flight. 

Turning  a  street  corner,  she  came  next 
into  sudden  collision  with  a  portly  priest,  and 
before  the  benign  and  astonished  Father 
could  regain  his  breath  had  thrown  herself 
into  his  arms  with  a  despairing  cry  for  pro- 
tection. 

"Save  me!"  she  gasped  between  spent 
breaths.  "Save  me,  for  God's  sake,  save 
me!" 

"What  is  it?"  cried  the  priest  as  he  looked 
into  the  face  upturned  to  his  in  piteous  ap- 


A  WHITE  SLAVE  123 

peal.  "Save  you  from  what?  What's  hap- 
pened to  you,  my  boy?" 

"I'm  not  a  boy,"  faltered  Margaret;  "I'm 
a  girl!" 

"A  girl!"  exclaimed  the  astounded  priest. 
"A  girl,  are  you?  And  a  slip  of  a  one  at 
that.  What  are  you  doing,  running  about 
the  streets  in  togs  like  this?"  he  added 
sternly. 

Margaret,  believing  that  his  cloth  meant 
protection,  told  her  story  without  reserve  or 
hesitation.  As  she  finished  her  tale  the 
priest  in  him  became  submerged  in  the  man. 
"The  fiends!  The  devils,"  he  exclaimed. 
"I'd  like  to  take  off  my  coat  and  go  there  this 
very  minute  and  clean  out  the  dirty  sink- 
hole." 

"You  won't  let  them  take  me  back?  Oh, 
you  won't,  will  you,  Father?"  pleaded  Mar- 
garet. 

"My  child,  I'd  protect  you  from  the  devil 
himself,"  said  Father  Connelly. 

"Then    please,    please,    take   me   to   my 


124  THE  CONSPIRACY 

brother.  He  can't  know  what  has  become 
of  me  or  he  would  have  found  me  by  now." 

"I'd  take  you  to  him  this  minute  if  we 
could  find  him.  But  we'll  have  to  wait  till  I 
can  get  him  at  his  office  in  the  morning. 
You  have  nothing  to  fear  now,  my  child,  you 
are  safe.  Come  with  me.  Only  a  few  steps 
away  you  will  find  love  and  tender  care 
awaiting  you." 

With  comforting  assurance  he  half  sup- 
ported, half  carried  Margaret  to  the  iron 
gates  of  the  Home  of  The  Sacred  Child  in 
Forty  —  Street. 

"Here  we  are,"  he  said  cheerily.  He  had 
no  sooner  spoken  than  he  felt  the  arm  of  the 
girl  relax  its  hold  upon  his  own,  and  her  un- 
conscious body  slipped  down  upon  the  pave- 
ment before  him  in  a  faint. 

Tenderly  lifting  her  in  his  arms,  he  carried 
her  into  the  Convent  and  laid  her  upon  a 
couch,  hastily  summoning  a  Sister  to  his  aid. 

Slowly,  fearfully,  Margaret  regained  con- 
sciousness. It  was  as  though  she  drifted 
through  a  sea  of  clouds,  in  which  flashed  sud- 


A  WHITE  SLAVE  125 

den,  lurid  fragments  of  dreadful  things. 
In  the  distance  she  heard  a  clock  strike  the 
hour,  and  then  the  clamouring  echo  of  the 
chimes. 

She  roused  herself  with  a  start.  "Where 
am  I?"  she  moaned. 

"Hush,  child,"  answered  a  sweet  voice. 
"Rest,  dear,  you  are  safe  among  friends." 

She  stroked  the  girl's  burning  forehead, 
hoping  to  calm  her  into  sleep,  and  Marga- 
ret's troubled  eyes  fell  upon  the  gold  cross 
that  hung  from  the  slender  chain  about  the 
Sister's  neck.  She  reached  forward  and 
clasped  the  little  thing  in  her  hand.  With 
its  touch  her  eyes  closed.  A  feeling  of  peace 
settled  on  her.  She  was  back  again  in  the 
little  church  at  Chester.  The  thick,  white 
clouds  were  closing  in  upon  her  again  fast, 
and  through  the  mist  came  the  voice  of  the 
dear  old  clergyman  who  had  christened  her, 
reading  his  favourite  psalm.  The  voice  died 
away,  and  she  drifted  with  the  clouds  back 
into  unconsciousness,  and  then  on  to  dreams. 

She  sat  on  the  bank  beside  the  old  river. 


126  THE  CONSPIRACY 

The  sun  was  flooding  it  with  evening  colours, 
tipping  the  church  steeple  with  glowing  car- 
mine. To  Margaret's  cheeks  it  lent  its 
colourful  brush  as  well,  but  its  glow  could 
not  reach  her  heart  or  warm  it.  She  thought 
of  the  past  months;  of  the  terrible  illness 
which  had  brought  her  to  the  very  gates  of 
death.  Why,  why  had  the  Sisters  brought 
her  back  to  life,  she  wondered  dully.  Here 
in  Chester  with  the  dear  old  Judge  she  was 
safe;  he  only  knew  her  story.  But  what 
could  life  hold  for  her  now?  It  was  Spring. 
The  world  of  nature  had  awakened,  and  was 
full  of  hope  and  expectation.  For  what  had 
she  the  right  to  hope  ?  She,  like  other  girls, 
had  had  her  happy  dreams — but  no!  She 
must  not  think,  she  would  not!  She  had 
promised  Victor.  The  ripple  of  the  flowing 
water  caught  her  ear.  There  was  the  river; 
there  was  the  solution  of  her  problem. 
What  was  there  to  prevent  her  from  slipping 
silently  out  to  sea  by  way  of  the  river? 

She     sat     absorbed     in     her     rebellious 
thoughts,  until  gradually  the  beauty  of  the 


A  WHITE  SLAVE  127 

scene  about  her  sank  into  her  consciousness. 
The  river  sparkled  and  rippled  on  its  way, 
happily  and  cheerily  fulfilling  its  mission; 
near  at  hand  the  cattle  in  the  meadow  peace- 
fully nibbled  their  evening  meal,  and  high 
in  air  a  night  hawk  gave  its  queer  shrill 
call. 

Her  spirit  roused  from  its  brooding  and 
stretched  its  wings  once  more  towards  the 
light.  How  marvellous  was  the  world,  how 
splendid  its  achievements !  The  sense  of  her 
degradation  dropped  from  her  like  a  cloak. 
A  growing  knowledge  of  power  and  good 
lifted  her  face  to  the  hills. 

Christ  had  suffered  and  toiled  that  others 
might  be  saved,  she  told  herself.  Why 
should  she  not  go  back  to  the  world,  and 
struggle  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  the 
brother  she  adored,  to  work  with  him  to  save 
from  misfortune  girls  like  herself? 

Glowing  with  the  fervour  of  self -consecra- 
tion, she  sprang  to  her  feet.  A  shower  of 
petals,  loosened  from  the  tree  above  her  by 
the  caress  of  the  soft  wind,  drifted  down 


128  THE  CONSPIRACY 

upon  her  shoulders.     She  must  hasten,  the 
Spring  was  growing  older  fast. 

Four  years  had  passed  since  the  day  Mar- 
garet had  appeared  at  her  brother's  office  be- 
seeching him  to  let  her  have  a  part  in  the  war 
he  had  begun  against  the  iniquitous  traffic 
that  had  blighted  his  sister's  life.  At  first 
he  had  protested  in  horror,  but  the  girl  had 
met  and  demolished  every  argument  he  ad- 
vanced, and  finally  won  his  consent  to  her 
participation  in  his  work. 

Together  they  had  worked,  together  they 
struggled  against  obstacles  that  would  have 
disheartened  the  most  valiant.  The  first  dis- 
couraging failure  had  been  the  attempt  to 
arrest  Mrs.  Dumont.  The  police  could  not 
or  would  not  locate  the  woman.  They 
moved  so  slowly  always  that  she  had  plenty 
of  time  to  run  to  cover.  From  the  precinct 
Lieutenant,  Holt  turned  to  the  precinct 
Boss,  but  they  were  all  alike. 

He  turned  to  his  first  client  and  benefac- 


A  WHITE  SLAVE  129 

tor  for  advice.  McKimmell  listened  to  Vic- 
tor's story  with  grave  attention.  "My  boy," 
he  said,  with  a  sad  smile,  "y°u  are  making 
a  vain  struggle  against  a  mighty  force — 
graft.  I  happen  to  know  something  of  the 
precinct  you  are  trying  to  work  against. 
Why,  even  if  you  secured  the  arrest  of  this 
fiend  in  woman's  garb,  I  doubt  if  you  would 
be  able  to  get  her  convicted.  I  have  spent  a 
vast  amount  of  time  and  money  helping  re- 
forms of  every  nature  and  description,  and  I 
know  whereof  I  speak." 

"But  what  can  I  do?  Surely  I  am  not  to 
let  that  woman  and  her  kind  go  unpunished," 
urged  Victor. 

"Work  independently  of  the  police." 

"But  how?" 

"Hire  the  best  detectives  in  New  York 
City." 

"But  I  haven't  the  money!" 

"I  will  take  care  of  that.  I  want  to  see 
you  win  out.  Start  a  crusade  against  this 
White  Slave  traffic.  I  have  the  money. 


130  THE  CONSPIRACY 

You  have  the  youth  and  determination.  I 
believe  you  to  be  the  man  for  the  cause,  the 
man  to  win  out." 

With  the  philanthropist's  aid,  Victor  Holt 
commenced  the  fight.  Step  by  step,  day  by 
day,  year  by  year  he  and  Margaret  worked 
together.  Rescuing  here,  preventing  there, 
occasionally  securing  a  conviction  and  an  ar- 
rest, unswervingly,  persistently  they  pushed 
on  the  work.  Though  Margaret  shunned  all 
publicity  and  no  one  in  her  brother's  office 
knew  her  face,  her  co-operation  was  more 
than  efficient,  nevertheless. 

Meanwhile  a  new  man  had  been  appointed 
District  Attorney,  Horton  by  name.  His 
office  would  be  no  sinecure,  for  all  the 
strength  of  his  department  was  needed  now 
to  cope  with  the  wave  of  crime  that  was 
sweeping  over  the  city,  flouting  morality, 
outraging  decency.  The  Scarlet  Band,  the 
most  notorious  gang  of  criminals  that  had 
ever  sported  in  the  underworld,  was  rapidly 
coming  to  be  a  terror  and  menace  to  society. 
Abduction,  burglary,  murder,  all  were  grist 


A  WHITE  SLAVE  131 

to  its  mill.  So  well  organised  was  it  that  the 
police  were  completely  baffled  at  every  at- 
tempt to  round  it  up.  There  could  be  no 
mistaking  any  one  of  their  enterprises ;  their 
trade-mark  was  always  left  behind ;  a  mock- 
ing letter  to  the  blue-coats,  in  an  envelope 
encircled  by  a  scarlet  band. 

The  District  Attorney,  who  had  recog- 
nised Holt's  fighting  qualities  as  the  kind  of 
metal  now  needed  in  his  office,  made  Victor 
his  assistant,  inciting  him  to  wage  war 
against  this  band  of  criminals  with  all  his 
strength  and  all  the  facilities  his  office  af- 
forded. Realising  what  this  recognition  of 
his  work  by  the  authorities  meant  to  him, 
Holt  took  fresh  courage  and  pushed  relent- 
lessly on.  The  first  intimation  that  he  had 
touched  the  gang  in  any  vital  place  came 
when  he  had  received  a  message  scrawled  on 
a  piece  of  paper,  encircled  by  a  scarlet  band, 
which  read:  "Victor  Holt:  You  fool  with 
us,  we  make  you  a  dead  man.  We  mean 
what  we  say  and  do  it.  Beware !" 

With  an  exultant  laugh,  Victor  showed  the 


132  THE  CONSPIRACY 

note  to  the  District  Attorney.  "See  that!" 
he  exclaimed.  "We've  hit  them!  We've 
hit  them!  We'll  get  them  now !" 

It  was  in  the  struggle  to  "get  them,"  work- 
ing side  by  side  with  her  brother,  that  Mar- 
garet had  come  again  into  deep  waters — had 
dealt  too  keenly  with  the  Scarlet  Banders 
and  in  the  end  was  hanging  on  the  precipice 
of  real  imprisonment. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   MURDER   OF   JAMES   MORTON 

BRAVELY  and  fully  Margaret  told  her  story, 
told  it  all.  At  times  she  must  pause  and 
could  hardly  go  on.  When  she  uttered  the 
words:  "One  day  a  great  brute  of  a 
man — >"  with  a  strangled  cry  of  agony  she 
buried  her  face  upon  her  arms  outstretched 
upon  the  table. 

The  reporter  was  staring  down  at  her  with 
eyes  of  unutterable  sympathy  and  horror. 
"God!"  he  groaned  between  stiff  lips.  And 
at  that  moment  the  boy  in  Howell's  nature 
slipped  away  forever,  leaving  in  its  place  a 
man  ripe  with  power  to  contend  and  to  pre- 
vail. "Oh,"  he  thought,  "if  I  could  only 
take  her  away  from  all  this,  shield  her,  make 
her  forget!"  Then  a  fresh  realisation  of  the 
peril  she  was  in  at  that  moment  swept  over 
him:  "Go  on!"  he  urged  hoarsely. 

133 


134  THE  CONSPIRACY 

Rallying  her  strength  Margaret  told  of 
the  events  that  led  up  to  the  moment  when 
she  reached  the  Rossamano. 

Closer  and  closer  the  net  was  drawn  in 
about  the  Scarlet  Band.  Victor  and  his  in- 
defatigable workers  were  full  of  hope  that 
the  end  was  in  sight. 

It  was  in  November,  when  the  suspicions 
of  Holt's  right-hand  man  and  ablest  detect- 
ive, Bill  Flynn,  were  aroused  by  the  actions 
of  James  Morton,  a  man  residing  at  the  Ho- 
tel Beaumont,  where  he  occupied  a  suite  of 
apartments  and  ostensibly  carried  on  a  cut- 
lery agency  for  the  St.  Louis  firm  of  Hills- 
dorf  &  Co. 

It  was  not  so  much  Morton  himself,  who 
made  Flynn  suspicious,  as  the  strange  cus- 
tomers, mostly  Italian  or  Spanish,  who 
called  upon  him.  In  the  person  of  one  of 
these  the  detective  had  recognised  a  man,  a 
foreigner,  who  had  been  arrested  some  time 
before  for  being  implicated  in  the  White 
Slave  traffic,  but  had  escaped  conviction  be- 
cause of  some  flaw  in  the  evidence  against 


MURDER  OF  MORTON       135 

him.  Furthermore  Holt  had  sent  a  letter  to 
Hillsdorf  &  Co.  asking  for  the  name  of  their 
New  York  agent,  and  the  letter  had  been  re- 
turned, bearing  information  from  the  post- 
master that  there  was  no  firm  of  that  name 
in  St.  Louis. 

Again  Flynn  had  seen  several  "want"  ad- 
vertisements cut  from  the  papers  which  read 
suspiciously,  and  referred  the  applicant,  al- 
ways a  woman,  to  "Suite  5,  Hotel  Beau- 
mont." 

"Suite  5  is  occupied  by  our  friend  Mor- 
ton," said  Flynn.  "We  ought  to  send  some 
one  down  to  land  that  job  of  stenographer." 

"You're  right,  Flynn,"  agreed  Victor. 
"But  whom  could  we  send?  We've  no  one 
on  our  staff  who  knows  enough  about  sten- 
ography to  make  good  even  in  that  position. 
I  wouldn't  trust  an  outsider.  Who  the 
Dickens  can  we  send?" 

"Send  me,"  suggested  Margaret,  who  had 
been  a  silent  but  attentive  listener. 

"You!"  ejaculated  her  brother.  "Non- 
sense, not  for  a  moment." 


136  THE  CONSPIRACY 

"But  I  know  stenography,"  persisted 
Margaret ;  and  she  added  quietly  but  firmly, 
"I  shall  try  for  that  position." 

So  that  was  how  one  day  Margaret  Holt 
called  at  the  Hotel  Beaumont  and  was 
shown  to  Mr.  Morton's  apartments  on  the 
third  floor. 

As  she  waited  for  the  cutlery  merchant  to 
interview  the  one  other  applicant  present  she 
had  an  opportunity  to  observe  the  man,  and 
did  so  carefully. 

He  was  of  middle  height,  with  heavily  built 
shoulders.  His  face,  which  had  the  swarthy 
complexion  of  the  Latin,  was  hard  and  cruel, 
and  from  a  sinister  expression  about  the 
mouth  derived  an  evil  look  which  the  cold, 
piercing  eyes,  glowering  under  bristling  eye- 
brows, curiously  accentuated.  He  was  im- 
maculately dressed,  and  had  almost  the  lan- 
guage and  the  manners  of  a  gentleman. 

Evidently  the  applicant  to  whom  he  was 
talking  was  too  experienced  or  was  not 
pretty  enough.  "No,"  he  concluded  curtly. 
"You  won't  do.  The  work  does  not  call  for 


MURDER  OF  MORTON       137 

one  of  your  experience,  or  the  pay  which  you 
should  command.  You  know  too  much. 
Thank  you  for  calling,"  he  added  courte- 
ously as  he  opened  the  door.  "Good  day!" 

Margaret  inferred  that  Mr.  Morton  was 
not  looking  for  brains,  and  decided  that  it 
was  her  cue  to  appear  rather  dense.  She 
answered  the  questions  he  put  her  with  as 
much  obtuseness  as  she  could  feign. 

"H'm,"  mused  Morton,  after  a  moment's 
deliberate  study  of  Margaret's  face. 
"You'll  do.  Oh,"  he  added  as  though 
weighing  her  usefulness,  "do  you  understand 
Spanish  or  Italian?" 

Margaret's  heart  sank.  After  all  was  he 
going  to  say  that  she  wouldn't  suit.  "No," 
she  faltered,  "but  I  can  learn." 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  he  said  quickly. 
"We  can  manage  all  right.  It's  only  that 
many  of  my  customers  come  from  the  Italian 
quarter,  and  you  might  have  to  wait  on 
them." 

Crossing  the  room  he  opened  the  door  on 
the  right.  "The  typewriter  is  in  there, 


138  THE  CONSPIRACY 

where  you  will  do  your  work.  This  is  my 
sample  room,"  he  explained  as  he  pointed  to 
a  long  table  upon  which  were  displayed 
samples  of  cutlery  of  divers  sorts.  "When 
can  you  begin  work?" 

"  Now,"  replied  Margaret  in  feigned 
eagerness. 

"Good-a!"  For  the  first  time  Margaret 
caught  a  slight  accent.  He  gave  her  some 
papers,  instructing  her  to  make  several 
copies  of  them,  as  they  were  his  new  price 
list.  "By  the  way,"  he  said,  as  he  called 
back,  "I  forgot  to  ask  your  name." 

"Mary  Hadfield,"  answered  Margaret 
promptly  and  started  again  for  her  work- 
room. She  had  almost  reached  the  door 
when  three  sharp  rings  from  the  telephone 
on  Morton's  desk  arrested  her.  She  turned 
to  answer  the  call  but  Mr.  Morton  hastily 
took  off  the  receiver  before  her.  "Savelli!" 
the  word  passed  from  his  lips  with  a  sharp- 
ness quite  in  contrast  to  the  languid  tones  in 
which  he  had  addressed  the  girl.  Before  he 


MURDER  OF  MORTON       139 

spoke  again  he  placed  his  hand  over  the 
transmitter,  as  though  to  muffle  the  reso- 
nant voice  of  the  person  with  whom  he  was 
in  communication,  and  turning  towards 
Margaret  said  sharply,  "What  are  you  wait- 
ing for?" 

"I  thought  you  spoke  to  me,  sir,"  she 
said  stupidly. 

"I  did  not.  Close  your  door  and  begin 
your  work,"  was  his  snarling  command. 

Margaret  obeyed.  Evidently  Mr.  Mor- 
ton had  business  of  an  extremely  private  na- 
ture. With  her  ear  to  the  key-hole,  she  lis- 
tened carefully,  while  Morton  in  rapid  and 
excited  tones  continued  his  conversation  at 
the  telephone.  He  was  speaking  in  Italian, 
but  once  Margaret  caught  the  word  "Holt." 
Presently  he  stopped  speaking  and  she  heard 
the  click  of  the  instrument  as  he  hung  up  the 
receiver.  Instantly  she  sprang  to  the  type- 
writer and  began  a  hurried  manipulation  of 
the  keys,  blundering  hopelessly  as  she  tried 
to  imagine  what  significance  the  name  Holt 


140  THE  CONSPIRACY 

might  have  in  that  conversation.  Her  con- 
jectures were  interrupted  by  the  opening  of 
her  door. 

"I'm  going  out,"  said  her  employer 
briefly.  "You  may  go  when  your  work  is 
finished.  Do  not  come  till  ten  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

"Very  well,  sir,"  she  replied,  and  began 
to  work  on  her  typewriter  laboriously. 

The  outer  door  closed  after  Mr.  Morton 
and  she  gave  a  sigh  of  relief.  For  a  few 
moments  she  sat  motionless,  thinking  of  the 
queer  work  she  had  elected  to  do.  She  was 
there  to  spy  on  this  man,  to  get  all  the  infor- 
mation she  could  about  him.  She  hated  the 
part  of  a  spy ;  but  she  had  volunteered  to  do 
it — and  do  it  she  would,  to  the  best  of  her 
ability. 

Hoping  to  get  some  clue  of  value  she  first 
tried  the  desk.  It  was  locked.  The  waste- 
paper  basket  yielded  no  secrets  either.  A 
door  on  the  left,  partly  concealed  by  a  por- 
tiere, stood  ajar;  quickly  she  opened  it,  and 
perceived  that  the  room  beyond  was  a  bed- 


MURDER  OF  MORTON      141 

room,  probably  Morton's.  She  entered  and 
made  careful  but  fruitless  search  of  the 
drawers  of  the  dresser;  examined  the  ample 
supply  of  clothing  that  hung  in  the  closet 
and  was  rewarded  by  finding  two  letters  ad- 
dressed to  Pedro  Alvarez,  General  Deliv- 
ery, New  York  City.  They  were  written 
in  Italian  and  signed  "Savelli."  Her  heart 
gave  a  bound  as  she  remembered  that  Savelli 
was  the  name  she  had  heard  Morton  repeat 
at  the  telephone.  She  had  three  names  now. 
What  was  the  bond  of  interest  between 
James  Morton,  Pedro  Alvarez  and  Savelli, 
then? 

Her  conjectures  were  suddenly  termi- 
nated by  an  imperative  knock  on  the  door. 
Waiting  only  to  conceal  the  letters  in  her 
blouse  she  answered  it  and  two  men  con- 
fronted her  as  she  opened  the  door.  One 
was  a  tall,  wiry  Italian,  with  a  scar  across  his 
cheek  which  gave  to  his  face  a  horribly  ma- 
levolent expression;  the  other  a  Jew,  small 
and  meagre,  whose  shifty  eyes  and  nervous 
snapping  of  the  fingers  gave  the  impression 


142  THE  CONSPIRACY 

of  a  man  in  constant  apprehension  of  dan- 
ger. 

The  tall  man  scrutinised  Margaret  coldly 
and  then  pushed  by  her  into  the  room,  leav- 
ing the  Jew  to  take  his  stand  at  the  win- 
dow, from  which  he  nervously  watched  the 
street  below. 

"Mr.  Morton,  is  he  not  here?"  questioned 
the  Italian. 

"No,"  answered  Margaret.  "He  left  an 
hour  ago." 

At  her  reply  the  Jew  snapped  his  fingers 
impatiently  and  his  companion  smothered 
an  oath  between  his  teeth.  "When  will  he 
come  back?"  demanded  the  latter  roughly. 

"He  did  not  say,"  answered  the  girl,  be- 
ginning to  be  seriously  alarmed  in  the  pres- 
ence of  this  evil-looking  pair. 

Again  the  tall  man  gave  her  a  piercing 
look  as  he  asked,  "You  his  new  sten-og- 
rapher?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Margaret. 

The  two  men  began  an  examination  of  the 
cutlery  displayed  on  the  table,  talking  ear- 


MURDER  OF  MORTON       143 

nestly  in  undertones  as  they  did  so.  Mar- 
garet strained  her  ears  to  hear  something  of 
the  conversation,  but  whether  it  referred  to 
business  or  personal  matters,  she  could  not 
determine. 

At  last  the  Jew  left  the  table  and  went  to 
the  window  again,  and  after  making  another 
careful  survey  of  the  street,  telegraphed  the 
result  of  his  scrutiny  to  the  other  by  a  nod 
of  the  head.  Apparently  this  was  a  signal 
that  the  coast  was  clear  in  the  street  below, 
for  the  two  men  at  once  made  their  way  to 
the  door. 

"Will  you  leave  your  names?"  Margaret 
inquired  in  a  business-like  tone. 

"Say  Mr.  Savelli  and  Mr.  Weinberg," 
replied  the  tall  man;  "I  will  call  Mr.  Mor- 
ton later  on  the  telephone." 

The  following  morning  Margaret  was  at 
her  post  a  little  before  ten  o'clock.  Morton, 
taking  his  Continental  breakfast  of  rolls  and 
coffee,  paid  little  heed  to  her  as  she  entered, 
merely  telling  her  to  make  more  copies  of 
the  price  list.  There  were  no  customers  at 


144  THE  CONSPIRACY 

all  during  the  day,  and  as  her  employer 
did  not  leave  the  apartment  she  found 
no  opportunity  to  continue  her  investiga- 
tions. 

At  about  four  o'clock,  however,  Morton 
received  a  woman  caller,  for  whom  he  him- 
self opened  the  outer  door  of  the  apartment. 
Margaret  saw  the  woman  as  she  entered  and 
threw  back  her  heavy  veil  before  Morton 
came  and  quickly  closed  the  door  of  her 
room.  Through  the  partly  opened  transom 
above  came  the  sound  of  their  voices,  the 
woman's  having  decidedly  the  accent  of 
Southern  Spain.  From  the  glimpse  she 
had  had  of  the  beautiful,  sensual,  highly- 
coloured  face  and  from  her  salutation  "Mia 
Pedro"  Margaret  knew  this  foreigner  to  be 
a  member  of  the  band. 

"Why  did  you  come  here,  Juanita?"  de- 
manded Morton  savagely.  "Haven't  I  told 
you  that  it  was  dangerous?" 

She  began  a  reply  in  Spanish,  but  the 
man  interrupted  her  with  a  curse.  "Speak 
English.  I  cannot  follow  that  Castilian 


MURDER  OF  MORTON       145 

dialect  of  yours.  Why  did  you  make  such 
a  bungle  of  that  last  affair,  when  you  had 
the  girl  almost  in  your  hands?" 

"I  could  do  nothing,"  the  woman 
answered  meekly;  "there  is  now  always  some 
of  Mr.  Holt's  men  to  watch." 

"Holt!  Pah!  He  thinks  our  warning  to 
keep  his  hands  off  .our  affairs  is  a  joke.  He 
has  strengthened*^  the  conspiracy  by  not  be- 
lieving it.  I  have  it  all  arranged  for  him 
soon.  The  fool!"  Margaret  could  hear  the 
rapid  pacing  of  his  steps.  "The  fool!"  he 
went  on.  "Either  there  will  come  an  end  to 
our  business  or  to  him.  How  does  he  know 
our  plans?  Who  is  the  traitor?" 

"We  had  better  leave  New  York,  Pedro, 
before  it  is  too  late,"  urged  the  woman 
anxiously. 

"Run  away!  Confess  myself  beaten  by 
that  fool  Holt?  For  two  years  we  have 
made  monkeys  of  the  police,  why  not  of 
him?"  he  demanded  scornfully.  Then  after 
a  moment:  "What  brought  you  here  to- 
day? What  do  you  want?" 


146  THE  CONSPIRACY 

"The  list  of  the  members  of  the  Society," 
she  answered  in  a  trembling  voice. 

"Ah,  the  list!  Yes!"  He  hesitated  a 
moment.  "Yes,  you  must  have  it  to  notify 
the  members  of  the  meeting  at  Guiseppe 
Pelatro's  on  Saturday." 

"It  is  no  longer  safe  to  meet  at  Guisep- 
pe's." 

"Not  safe!    Why?" 

"It  is  watched." 

At  this  information  Morton  grew  almost 
purple  with  passion.  "Some  more  of  that 
damned  Holt's  work  I  suppose.  Tell  Sa- 
velli  to  come  on  Thursday  at  five  o'clock  for 
the  list.  If  I  am  not  here  he  will  find  it" — 
he  crossed  the  room  till  he  came  near  the 
door  of  his  bed-room,  then  bending,  pulled 
up  a  corner  of  the  carpet — "there.  Do  you 
understand,  Juanita?  There." 

"Yes,  yes,"  assented  the  woman.  "On 
Thursday  he  is  to  come  at  five  o'clock  for  it 
and  if  you  are  not  here  he  will  find  it  there." 

"Good,"  he  ejaculated.  "Tell  him  not  to 
worry.  Tell  him,"  raising  his  voice  a  little 


MURDER  OF  MORTON      147 

in  vicious  exultation,  "that  we'll  have  noth- 
ing to  fear  from  Holt  after  Thursday." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?  Oh,  Pedro, 
do  leave  New  York." 

"Leave?  I?"  he  cried  scornfully.  "Not 
I.  I'm  safe,  I  tell  you,  safe." 

"Safe,  Pedro!  I  tell  you  that  man  Holt 
is  watching  us,  marking  us  down,  checking 
us  for  prison,  every  one  of  us!"  Her  voice 
rose  almost  to  an  hysterical  scream  on  the 
last  word. 

"Hush,  you  fool,"  cautioned  Morton. 
Then  he  added  soothingly:  "You  stay  and 
have  dinner  with  me,  Juanita.  Go  in  there 
until  I  call  you."  He  pushed  her  into  the 
bedroom  and  closed  the  door,  and  after  wait- 
ing a  moment  opened  the  door  of  Mar- 
garet's room,  saying  as  he  did  so:  "You 
may  go  now,  Miss  Hadfield,  and  you  need 
not  come  again  until  Friday,  business  is  so 
very  slack." 

But  with  the  morning  came  the  convic- 
tion that  she  must  go  to  the  Beaumont  that 
day  at  all  costs.  She  must  get  that  list  be- 


148  THE  CONSPIRACY 

fore  Savelli  came.  How  could  she  get  into 
the  apartment,  she  wondered.  Morton  had 
told  her  not  to  come  back;  doubtless  he  had 
given  instructions  to  the  hotel  people  not 
to  admit  his  stenographer  if  she  came  there. 

With  her  mind  alert  to  every  chance  of 
success  or  failure,  her  heart  beating  hard  and 
fast,  Margaret  made  her  way  to  the  Beau- 
mont. Entering,  she  avoided  the  elevator 
and  climbed  the  stairs  gradually  to  the  third 
floor.  There  she  peered  down  the  hall  and 
to  her  surprise  saw  that  Morton's  door  was 
open.  She  crept  to  a  dark  hall-way  almost 
opposite  and  could  hear  him  giving  direc- 
tions to  a  porter  to  take  his  luggage  down 
and  order  a  taxi  for  him. 

What  could  be  the  meaning  of  this  ?  Was 
he  preparing  for  flight?  Was  he  taking  the 
list  with  him?  No,  Savelli  was  to  come  for 
it  at  five  o'clock,  and  it  was  now  only  half- 
past  four.  There  was  still  the  chance  that 
the  paper  lay  safe  in  its  hiding  place. 

On  tip-toe  she  approached  the"half-open 
door.  She  heard  Morton  moving  about  in 


MURDER  OF  MORTON       149 

his  bedroom.  Quietly  she  stole  into  the 
sample  room,  then  into  the  room  where  she 
had  worked.  Here  she  crouched  in  the 
darkness  by  the  window,  reasoning  that  if 
she  heard  him  coming  she  could  creep  out  on 
to  the  fire-escape  wrhich  she  knew  was  there. 
Her  heart  was  beating  so  hard  it  seemed  to 
her  that  Morton  must  hear  it.  Her  body 
grew  cold  with  fear  as  she  realised  her  situ- 
ation. 

In  a  few  minutes,  it  seemed  hours  to  the 
girl  waiting  in  agonised  suspense,  she  heard 
the  man  come  out  of  his  room,  close  his  desk 
with  a  bang  and  switch  off  the  lights.  Then 
the  hall  door  slammed  and  she  knew  that  she 
was  alone. 

Waiting  until  after  she  heard  the  elevator 
descend,  she  groped  for  the  light  button  and 
pressed  it.  Where  to  look  for  the  list  she 
did  not  know,  but  crossing  to  go  to  the  bed- 
room her  foot,  as  luck  had  it,  struck  a  ridge 
in  the  carpet.  Down  on  her  knees  she  went, 
and  pulling  up  the  corner  of  the  carpet  she 
found  a  long  sealed  envelope  beneath  it. 


150  THE  CONSPIRACY 

At  last  she  had  found  it!  Slipping  the 
precious  thing  into  her  blouse,  she  was  just 
rising  to  her  feet  when  she  heard  the  sound 
of  a  key  in  the  lock.  This  time  her  very 
heart  stood  still.  She  was  trapped  like  a 
rat  in  a  cage. 

She  had  no  time  to  hide.  As  Morton  en- 
tered the  room,  she  stood  with  her  back 
against  the  wall,  her  two  burning,  glowing 
eyes,  the  only  spots  of  colour  in  her  white 
face. 

Morton  stepped  quietly  into  the  room, 
closing  the  door  behind  him  and  slipping  the 
bolt  into  place,  glaring  at  the  girl.  Then 
his  eyes  travelled  from  her  to  the  desk  with 
its  opened  drawers,  to  the  knife  lying  on  the 
floor  beside  it.  There  was  a  cruel  smile  on 
his  lips  and  his  eyes  glistened. 

"So — my  little  stenographer — spy,  eh! 
Well,  I  have  my  spies,  too.  That's  how  I 
know  who  you  are!  You  devil!"  he  almost 
hissed  the  words.  "You  should  have  been 
more  careful,  my  dear.  You  should  have  re- 
turned those  two  letters !" 


MURDER  OF  MORTON       151 

Margaret's  stiff  lips  refused  to  open,  her 
brain  was  suggesting  and  rejecting  plans 
with  the  rapidity  of  lightning ;  her  eyes  were 
fixed  on  Morton  in  a  fascinated  stare. 

"Your  brother,"  he  continued  slowly,  as 
though  he  meant  every  torturing  word  to 
sink  deep  into  the  girl's  mind,  "is  now  at  the 
Cafe  Rossamano,  dining  with  a  friend. 
Three  of  my  friends  are  waiting  for  a  word 
from  me  to  put  an  end  to  him,  do  you  under- 
stand? To  put  an  end  to  him."  He  moved 
as  he  spoke,  to  the  desk,  and  grasped  the 
telephone.  "I  am  going  to  give  that  word 
now." 

Margaret  sprang  towards  him.  "No,  for 
God's  sake,  no !  Take  your  vengeance  upon 
me  if  you  will,  not  upon  him.  Not  upon 
him!" 

"Ill  take  my  vengeance  on  you  all  right, 
too,  after  I've  settled  him,"  he  sneered. 
Then,  "Give  me  983  Spring,"  he  cried. 

"No!  You  shall  not  give  that  word," 
Margaret  called  hoarsely,  as  she  sprang  upon 
him,  trying  to  take  the  ear  piece  from  him. 


152  THE  CONSPIRACY 

With  his  free  hand  he  caught  the  girl  by 
the  throat  and  held  her  down  against  the 
desk,  while  he  called,  "Is  that  you,  Savelli? 
Holt" — Margaret's  left  hand  came  loose 
with  desperate  force,  covering  his  mouth. 
With  an  oath  he  caught  it  and  thrust  it 
away.  As  he  bent  her  backwards,  her  right 
hand  came  in  contact  with  the  knife  lying  on 
the  floor.  A  wild  impulse  to  save  her 
brother  came  to  her  with  the  touch  of  the 
cold  steel.  She  seized  the  knife  and  before 
Morton  could  move,  with  all  her  magnificent 
young  strength,  had  struck  it  into  him  above 
the  heart. 

With  a  groan,  the  wretched  man  dropped 
the  instrument  he  was  holding,  and  stag- 
gered back  against  the  wall.  Then,  snatch- 
ing at  the  house  telephone  as  he  swayed,  he 
muttered  into  it  thickly:  "Quick!  I  have 
been — stabbed  by  a — woman.  She — •"  and 
then  he  fell. 

Margaret  gazed  at  his  lifeless  form  in 
horror.  Had  she,  Margaret  Holt,  done  this 
thing?  The  dripping  knife  still  in  her 


MURDER  OF  MORTON      153 

hand  answered  her.  She  grew  faint  and 
sick  and  would  have  fallen,  had  not  the 
sound  of  voices  and  hurrying  feet  warned 
her  to  keep  her  senses.  She  must  escape, 
she  must  get  the  papers  to  her  brother.  She 
could  not  get  out  by  the  door,  she  would  meet 
the  alarmed  household.  She  steadied  her 
frenzied  mind.  She  must  think!  Quickly 
she  turned  to  the  room  in  which  she  had 
worked,  gently  opened  the  window  and 
climbed  out  on  to  the  fire  escape,  made  her 
way  down  swiftly  and  dropped  to  the 
ground.  Across  the  street  was  a  cab. 
Jumping  in,  she  said  to  the  driver:  "Quick! 
To  the  Cafe  Rossamano." 


CHAPTER  XJ 

CLAVEBING'S  NEW  NOVEL 

"AND  that's  where  I  came  in,"  repeated  Jack 
Howell.  "But  what  became  of  your 
brother  there?  Have  you  no  idea?" 

"Two  men  dragged  him  across  the  street 
to  a  taxi,"  said  Margaret.  "They  had  not 
received  the  word  from  Morton  to  put  him 
out  of  the  way,  so  I  think  they  took  the 
chance  to  kidnap  him." 

"And  this  in  New  York  City,  in  the 
Twentieth  Century,"  ejaculated  Jack. 
"And  you — to  think  that  a  little  girl  like 
you  should  pit  yourself  against  these  de- 
mons! How  could  they  let  you  do  it?" 

"You  won't  give  me  up?"  she  cried  again. 

"Give  you  up?"  He  caught  her  hands  in 
his  and  drew  her  towards  him.  "Never, 
never  as  long  as  I  have  strength  to  hold  you ! 
I — "  Her  soul  seemed  to  be  looking  at  him 

154 


"AND  YOU — TO  THINK  THAT  A  LITTLE  GIRL  LIKE  YOU  SHOULD  PIT 
YOURSELF  AGAINST  THESE  DEMONS  !" 


CLAVERING'S  NEW  NOVEL     155 

through  her  eyes.  "You  mustn't  look  at  me 
with  those  eyes,"  he  said  with  an  attempt  at 
his  old  cheery  manner.  "It  gets  my  mind 
off  my  work,  and,"  growing  serious  again, 
"there's  a  big  work  to  be  done,  and  from  this 
moment  Jack  Howell  is  on  the  job." 

Bang  went  the  street  door  again.  Mar- 
garet slipped  hurriedly  behind  the  desk  and 
Howell  took  up  his  station  where  he  could 
watch  the  revealing  mirror  from  behind  a 
newspaper. 

A  grey-haired  man  entered  quietly,  as  he 
did  so  casting  a  cautious,  stealthy  glance, 
first  at  the  girl,  then  at  the  reporter.  The 
latter  became  uneasy.  Was  this  a  plain- 
clothes  man  who  had  tracked  the  girl  here? 
Watching  from  behind  his  paper,  he  saw  the 
new-comer  go  to  the  reading  table,  and  re- 
move his  hat,  always  with  his  eyes  on  Mar- 
garet. Next  he  saw  him  push  a  book  from 
the  table  to  the  floor,  purposely. 

At  the  sound,  Howell  saw  Margaret  start 
and  look  towards  the  man,  heard  her  give  a 
little  cry  and  turning  quickly  saw  the 


156  THE  CONSPIRACY 

stranger  give  a  warning  look  in  his  direc- 
tion. 

"It  is  all  right,  Uncle,"  she  whispered. 

"Uncle!"  The  reporter  understood  and 
turned  to  meet  the  stern  eyes  that  scrutinised 
him  so  keenly. 

"Are  you  her  friend?"  demanded  the  old 
man. 

"That's  your  best  little  bet!"  said  How- 
ell,  as  he  looked  towards  the  girl  to  confirm 
his  eager  assertion. 

"It's  all  right,  Uncle,  he  is  our  friend. 
You  may  speak  before  him.  Did  you  bring 
it?"  she  asked  breathlessly. 

"Yes."  He  drew  from  his  pocket  a 
scroll  of  paper  around  which  Howell  saw  a 
scarlet  band.  With  trembling  fingers  the 
girl  took  the  mysterious  missive  to  the  light 
on  the  desk. 

"What  is  it?"  questioned  Howell  eagerly. 

"It's  a  letter  from  them.  From  the  Scar- 
let Band."  For  a  moment  the  dread  of 
what  it  might  contain  made  her  pause,  then 
with  a  nervous  effort,  she  tore  off  its  flam- 


CLAVERING'S  NEW  NOVEL     157 

ing  insignia  and  opened  it.     The  message 
ran: 

TO  MISS  MARGARET  HOLT:  WE  KNOW 
YOU  NOW  AND  WHY  YOU  KILLED  JAMES 
MORTON.  YOUR  BROTHER  WE  HAVE. 
THE  PAPER  LEFT  IN  MORTON'S  ROOM  IS 
GONE.  PLACE  THAT  PAPER  EXACTLY 
LIKE  YOU  FOUND  IT  UNOPENED,  IN  A 
BOOK  ON  LAST  SEAT,  RIGHT  SIDE,  ST. 
ANNE'S  CHURCH  BEFORE  TEN  TO- 
NIGHT. IF  THIS  YOU  DO  NOT  DO— YOUR 
BROTHER  IS  DEAD. 

Margaret  drew  a  long  quivering  breath  as 
she  finished.  Howell  clenched  his  fists. 
"They  wouldn't  dare,"  he  muttered.  "Is 
there  anything  more?" 

With  an  effort  she  cleared  the  mist  from 
her  eyes  and  read  on, 

HE  IS  SAFE  AS  LONG  AS  NOTHING  IS 
KNOWN,  BUT  IF  YOU  GO  TO  THE  POLICE, 
BEWARE ! 

The  letter  dropped  from  the  girl's  hand. 
"Oh,  Victor,  Victor !  What  shall  I  do  ?"  she 
moaned. 


158  THE  CONSPIRACY 

Howell,  stunned  and  stupefied,  could 
make  no  answer  to  her  pitiful  appeal ;  it  was 
Mark  Wilson's  hoarse,  strained  voice  that 
brought  him  to  his  senses. 

"They've  got  him.  That's  sure.  And 
they  won't  stop  at  anything,  you  know  that. 
You  do  what  they  say,  get  that  list  back  to 
them  and  get  it  back  quick !  Oh,  if  you  and 
Victor  had  only  listened  to  me !" 

"It  is  the  one  thing  to  do,"  agreed  How- 
ell. 

"Yes,  my  uncle  is  right.  We  must  get 
the  list  back  to  them  at  once."  Margaret 
spoke  calmly  and  deliberately  now. 

"Where  is  it?"  demanded  the  reporter. 

Thrusting  her  hand  into  her  blouse  she 
drew  forth  the  envelope  and  gave  it  to 
him. 

He  looked  at  it  closely,  "Why,  it  is 
sealed!" 

"Thank  God  that  it  is,"  the  girl  replied 
fervently.  "They  demand  that  it  be  re- 
turned unopened." 


CLAVERING'S  NEW  NOVEL     159 

As  Howell  felt  of  the  envelope  his  hands 
twitched  with  excitement.  "But  are  you 
sure  that  this  is  the  list  they  want?" 

"Yes.  Why  else  should  they  be  so  eager 
to  get  it  back?" 

"That's  right.  But  if  you  send  them  this 
without  first  learning  its  contents,  all  your 
work,  and  all  you  have  suffered,  is  gone  for 
nothing." 

"Oh,  what  does  it  matter,  if  only  I  get 
Victor  back.  I  can  do  nothing  alone.  To- 
gether, he  and  I  can  begin  all  over  again," 
she  said  wearily. 

"But  if  you  send  this,"  urged  Howell, 
"they've  got  what  they  want,  and  then  what 
is  to  prevent  their  killing  your  brother  sure 
enough?" 

"They  won't  do  that,"  interposed  Mark 
Wilson,  "as  long  as  she  is  alive." 

"No,  my  uncle  is  right.  I  know  too 
much.  See,"  she  pointed  to  the  letter: 

'Your  brother  is  safe  so  long  as  nothing 
is  known.'  " 


160  THE  CONSPIRACY 

"But  is  he?"  persisted  the  skeptical  How- 
ell,  who  doubted  if  the  Devil  himself  would 
be  safe  with  that  gang. 

"Won't  they  hold  him  to  keep  her  quiet?" 
suggested  Uncle  Mark. 

"Yes:  you  are  right.  That  is  just  what 
they  will  do.  I  guess  there  is  nothing  for 
us  but  to  come  across  with  the  goods."  He 
looked  at  the  sealed  envelope.  "I  wonder  if 
I  could  pry  it  open?" 

"No,  no!  Don't  try!"  begged  Margaret. 
"Remember  it  must  be  returned  as  I  found 
it." 

"All  right!  I  won't,"  Jack  reluctantly 
assented.  "But  it  seems  a  shame  to  give 
that  up.  They  would  have  to  come  and 
take  it  from  my  dead  body  if  I  had  my  way." 
Again  his  twitching  fingers  felt  of  the  en- 
velope as  if  by  some  mysterious  power  of 
touch  he  might  read  its  contents.  "It's 
written  on  a  piece  of  card-board,"  he  ex- 
claimed. Then  with  uncontrollable  curiosity 
he  held  it  up  before  one  of  the  wall  electric 
lights:  but  to  no  avail.  It  remained  im- 


CLAVERING'S  NEW  NOVEL     161 

penetrable.  "I  can't  see  a  thing,"  he  cried 
impatiently.  He  hated  to  acknowledge 
himself  beaten  in  his  first  encounter  with  the 
Scarlet  Band.  But  so  far  he  was  forced 
to  admit  defeat. 

What  should  his  next  step  be?  "I  have 
it!"  he  called.  Then  as  his  idea  crystallised 
he  exclaimed,  "I've  got  it!" 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Margaret  eagerly. 

"Trust  your  Uncle  Dudley!  Will  you 
trust  me?" 

"What  is  it?" 

"Never  mind.  You  leave  it  to  me." 
Jerking  his  watch  from  his  pocket;  "How 
much  time  have  I?  I  can  make  it,"  he  cal- 
culated. "Good!"  Then  he  unfolded  his 
plan.  "I  will  take  this  thing  to  the  church 
myself." 

"No,  no,"  protested  the  girl;  "it  would  be 
risking  your  life.  One  of  the  gang  who  was 
at  the  Rossamano  might  come  for  it  and 
recognise  you." 

"I'd  like  nothing  better  than  to  meet  any 
one  of  those  pirates  again." 


162  THE  CONSPIRACY 

"No,  no,  you  don't  know  them  as  we  do!" 

"I  would  not  chance  it,"  advised  cautious 
Mark  Wilson. 

Howell  reflected  for  a  moment.  It  was 
taking  a  chance,  he  knew.  If  he  were  to 
play  any  part  in  this  desperate  game  he 
must  not  be  known  to  any  member  of  the 
gang.  "Perhaps  you  are  right,"  he  agreed 
finally.  Then  he  caught  at  another  idea. 
"Wait  a  minute !  I  know  a  man,  Andy  Riv- 
ers; he's  a  down  and  out  reporter  hanging 
round  our  office.  He'll  do  anything  for  two 
dollars." 

"But  he  might  ask  questions,"  cautioned 
Margaret. 

"All  he  will  ask  is,  do  I  get  the  two?"  de- 
clared Howell.  "I'll  get  Rivers  to  take  the 
package  to  the  church  while  I  hang  round 
somewhere  and  see  who  comes  to  get  it. 
Then  I'll  trail  the  gink  and  perhaps  get  a 
line  on  where  those  gangsters  have  your 
brother." 

"Find  Victor?" 

"Why  not?     It's  a  long  chance,  but  let's 


CLAVERING'S  NEW  NOVEL     163 

try  it!  We  won't  call  ourselves  licked 
yet!  Now  if  any  more  of  those  pink  notes 
come  from  the  crime  set,  just  get  them  to  me 
at  the  Telescope  office,"  instructed  Howell, 
handing  the  elder  man  one  of  his  cards. 
"And  mind!"  he  added  emphatically.  "Not 
a  word  to  the  police;  you  understand  that!" 

"Yes,  absolutely,"  Wilson  replied.  "I 
know  the  danger  there." 

So  Jack  took  up  his  hat  to  depart  on  his 
pilgrimage  to  St.  Anne's.  Then  he  stopped 
and  looked  gravely  at  the  girl.  "But  what 
about  you?"  he  asked.  "You  can't  stay 
here." 

"Yes,  I  can.  Miss  Towne  said  she  would 
find  some  place  for  me." 

"But  it  wouldn't  be  safe.  You  have  got 
to  live  in  a  vault  till  we  get  this  thing  over." 

"He  is  right,"  agreed  her  uncle.  "They 
would  kill  you  and  Victor  both.  You  know 
they  would!" 

"But  where  can  I  go?" 

"I  could  take  you  to  my  mother,"  sug- 
gested Howell.  "But  if  those  ginks  should 


164  THE  CONSPIRACY 

spot  me  they  might  find  you,  too.  You 
have  got  to  disappear,  that's  all!"  he  said 
vehemently.  "But  where,  where?"  Walk- 
ing up  and  down  he  tried  desperately  to 
think  of  some  solution  to  his  problem. 

"I  don't  want  any  of  them.  They 
won't  do  at  all!"  Clavering's  petulant  voice 
sounded  from  the  hall.  He  continued  to  pay 
his  respects  to  an  employment  bureau  where 
he  had  had  to  search  hours,  hours,  unsuccess- 
fully for  a  stenographer,  respects  that  were 
copious  and  valuable. 

Miss  Towne,  looking  flushed  and  angry, 
followed  him  into  the  room  and  came  directly 
to  Margaret.  "My  dear,"  she  said  in  an  un- 
dertone, "I  heard  Dr.  Christopher  go  out, 
and  I  knew  that  you  were  all  alone  here,  but 
I  just  didn't  dare  leave  that  ugly  man  to 
talk  to  those  girls  alone.  I  knew  that  he 
would  frighten  them  to  death.  Of  course 
they  won't  work  for  him,  the  brute  1" 

Clavering  continued  his  complaints. 
"Tried  to  hand  me  a  nice  lemon  with  that 
last  one!  She  started  in  by  kicking  at  the 


CLAVERING'S  NEW  NOVEL     165 

hours!  Must  have  my  sleep,"  he  mocked. 
"Only  fools  need  a  lot  of  sleep!"  He  began 
to  gather  up  his  books. 

Howell  looked  at  him.  Was  this  a  dis- 
pensation of  Providence?  "You  want  a 
stenographer?"  he  inquired  of  Clavering. 

"Yes,"  he  snapped,  "but  I  guess  I'll  have 
to  have  one  made  to  order." 

"Why  don't  you  try  this  young  lady?" 
asked  Jack,  indicating  Margaret. 

Clavering  shot  an  inquiring  glance  at  the 
surprised  girl. 

"Are  you  a  stenographer?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  sir,"  Margaret  replied  at  once. 

"Don't  sir  me,  or  I'll  have  to  Miss  you, 
and  I  won't  stand  that,"  Clavering  growled. 

"She  has  done  very  good  work  for  me," 
Howell  interposed.  "She's  all  right." 

"How  much  sleep  do  you  require?"  the 
novelist  demanded. 

"I  can  do  with  very  little,"  smiled  Mar- 
garet. 

"Well,  that  is  all  you  are  likely  to  get. 
You  look  more  intelligent  than  most  of  those 


166  THE  CONSPIRACY 

dolled-up  ladies.     Do  you  want  the  job?" 

Margaret  looked  at  Howell.  "I  should 
like  to  try  it,"  she  replied. 

"Come  along  then,  I'll  make  the  salary 
all  right." 

Without  further  parley,  he  turned  to 
gather  up  his  books  again;  then  suddenly 
stopped  to  ask  her  an  important  question. 
"Do  you  know  anything  about  crime?" 

Margaret  and  Howell  started  at  this  un- 
expected bomb. 

"Crime?  What  do  you  mean?"  the  girl 
faltered,  shrinking  before  his  piercing  gaze. 

"H'm,"  he  chuckled.  "You  will  before 
you  have  worked  long  for  me.  I  eat  with 
it.  I  sleep  with  it."  He  began  wrapping 
his  crane-like  neck  in  the  folds  of  a  worsted 
muffler,  preparatory  to  departing. 

"It's  just  the  thing,"  Howell  explained 
in  an  undertone  to  the  bewildered  girl. 
"He  lives  like  a  hermit.  You  can  disappear 
in  his  house.  I  will  keep  in  touch  with 

you." 

This  conversation,  carried  on  in  an  under- 


I 
CLAVERING'S  NEW  NOVEL     167 

tone,  did  not  escape  the  eagle  eye  of  the  nov- 
elist. "Oh,"  he  said,  coming  to  Margaret. 
"There's  another  thing  I  forgot  to  ask  you." 
He  gave  a  questioning  look  towards  Howell. 
"Have  you  got  a  feller?" 

"Why,  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  re- 
plied the  puzzled  girl. 

"A  feller,  a  sweetheart  who  will  come  call- 
ing on  you  and  interrupt  my  work." 

"No,  I  have  no  sweetheart." 

"Good!  Don't  ever  have  one.  The  last 
stenographer  I  had  left  to  be  married. 
Married!  Rot!  No  woman  is  interesting 
after  you  have  lived  with  her  a  week!  No 
man  is  interesting  after  you  have  talked  with 
him  an  hour." 

Further  comments  were  cut  short  by  Miss 
Towne.  She  did  not  feel  that  she  ought  to 
let  Margaret  take  this  position ;  yet  she  had 
no  good  reason  to  offer  in  objection.  She 
approached  Clavering.  "I  am  sorry  that 
you  thought  that  Miss  Brown  would  not 
do,"  she  began  graciously. 

The  novelist  snapped  her  up.     "I  don't 


168  THE  CONSPIRACY 

think.  I  know.  Besides,  I  have  engaged 
this  young  woman." 

At  this  moment  Howell  received  a  shock. 
He  saw  Captain  Ryan  passing  the  window. 
He  must  not  come  in  and  discover,  through 
Miss  Towne,  that  Margaret  was  not  the  Sec- 
retary. "Excuse  me,  Miss  Towne,"  he  said 
quickly,  "if  you  will  ask  Miss  Brown  to  wait 
a  moment  perhaps  I  can  put  her  onto  a  posi- 
tion." 

"Certainly.  I  will  go  at  once,"  the  secre- 
tary answered,  and  left  the  room.  Her  exit 
was  timely,  for  the  officer  was  just  entering. 

"I  want  to  use  this  telephone,"  he  said, 
stepping  to  the  desk. 

"Go  as  far  as  you  like,  Captain,"  replied 
the  anxious  reporter.  "It  isn't  mine." 

"Spring—" 

Howell  drew  a  long  breath  and  Margaret 
shivered.  Ryan  was  calling  headquarters. 

"This  is  Ryan!  Anything  new?  Fine"! 
I  thought  so !"  With  a  grin  of  satisfaction 
he  hung  up  the  receiver  and  turned  to  How- 
ell, who  tried  to  return  his  gaze  with  one  of 


CLAVERING'S  NEW  NOVEL     169 

unconcern.  "Well,  I  got  the  right  dope  on 
that  case.  We've  got  the  woman  who  killed 
Morton!" 

With  difficulty  the  reporter  answered, 
"That  so?  Who  was  it?" 

"Why,  I  told  you!  The  Spanish  woman 
who  called  on  him  this  afternoon.  Just 
pinched  her.  Oh,  we're  a  lot  of  muts,  are 
we?" 

"Yes,  you  are!"  almost  screamed  Claver- 
ing.  "Spanish  woman!  Bosh!  I  tell  you 
it  was  the  stenographer." 

Ryan  threw  back  his  head  with  a  hoarse 
guffaw  of  laughter.  "Little  Nemo!  The 
boy  sleuth.  Always  hands  me  a  laugh." 

"Yes,  and  I'll  hand  you  something  else," 
retorted  Clavering,  "if  I  catch  the  real  mur- 
derer and  walk  into  Headquarters  with  her." 

"Oh  mercy,  listen  to  him!  You  couldn't 
catch  your  own  feet." 

"I  couldn't,  eh!"  screamed  the  irate  au- 
thor, shaking  his  cane.  "You  wait  till  I 
show  you  and  your  graft-fed  blue-coats  up 
for  a—" 


170  THE  CONSPIRACY 

"Aw!"  retorted  the  maligned  officer  with 
a  contemptuous  jeer,  "Get  out  and  pump! 
You've  got  a  flat  tire !"  and  stalked  out  leav- 
ing Clavering  white  and  choking  with  rage. 

"Did  you  hear  what  he  called  me?"  he 
sputtered,  appealing  to  Howell.  "Did  you 
hear?  He  called  me  a  flat  tire.  I'll  show 
these  blue-coated  pills  up  for  a  lot  of  blatant 
jackasses.  I'll  write  a  story  about  this  mur- 
der that  will  show  exactly  how  it  was  done. 
Come  on !"  he  commanded  Margaret.  "We 
must  get  right  at  it  to-night." 

With  this  declaration  he  again  gathered 
up  the  books  he  had  let  drop  during  his  alter- 
cation with  Captain  Ryan. 

"What  shall  I  do?"  whispered  Margaret 
to  Howell.  "Suppose  he  finds  me  out? 
He  will  give  me  up  to  the  police !  Then  Sa- 
velli  and  his  men  will  know!" 

"It's  too  late  now  to  turn  back!"  urged 
Jack.  "You  are  not  safe  here  a  minute 
longer.  It's  the  only  way.  We've  got  to 
chance  it!" 

"Come  on!"  broke  in  the  criminologist. 


CLAVERING'S  NEW  NOVEL     171 

"I've  got  the  first  chapter  in  my  head  al- 
ready. We'll  write  it  to-night  and  I  can 
get  it  published  by  next  week,  and  before  I 
get  through  I'll  have  Morton's  murderer  in 
the  Tombs !  Come  on  now !" 

Howell  stood  rigidly  watching  the  girl  as 
Clavering  led  her  out.  At  the  door  she 
turned,  and  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  terror- 
haunted  eyes  and  a  white  face  under  the  red 
hat.  Then  she  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XII 

JACK   HOWELL  DOES   THINGS 

EVEN  before  Margaret  Holt  had  left  The 
Refuge  with  the  eccentric  author  Jack  How- 
ell  began  to  realise  the  gravity  of  this  new 
danger  there  might  be  for  his  protegee  in  the 
close  association  with  a  man  of  such  crime- 
detecting  propensities  as  Clavering.  The 
slightest  betrayal  of  her  secret  would  not  be 
lost  on  that  fathoming,  ferreting  brain.  The 
hunted  girl  plainly  feared  the  position  into 
which  his  own  hasty  judgment  had  thrust 
her,  and  the  ordeal  would  be  all  the  more 
trying  on  that  account. 

"I  was  a  fool!"  he  exclaimed  to  Mark 
Wilson.  "I  believe  this  head  piece  of  mine 
is  turning  into  solid  ebony.  I'm  going  to 
bring  her  back,"  he  added  and  started  im- 
pulsively towards  the  door. 

172 


HOWELL  DOES  THINGS     173 

The  old  man  caught  him  by  the  arm:  "I 
wouldn't  do  that;  it  will  only  lead  to  ex- 
planations that  might  arouse  Clavering's 
suspicions,"  he  counselled. 

Howell  thought  a  moment.  "Right  you 
are,"  he  agreed.  "We've  got  to  chance  it 
now;  but  somehow  I  wish  I  hadn't  let  her 
go!  Well!"  he  said  later,  looking  at  his 
watch  as  he  moved  towards  the  door,  "I'm 
going  after  that  chap  Rivers  I  told  you 
about.  I  must  get  him  to  the  church  with 
the  list  those  Scarlet  Banders  have  their 
pipes  laid  out  for.  Come  to  my  office  in  the 
morning  and  I'll  let  you  know  if  I've  got  a 
line  on  anything.  We've  just  got  to  put 
this  thing  over  ourselves.  The  'band'  will 
watch  the  police  like  cats." 

Together  they  left  The  Refuge,  parting 
at  the  subway  entrance,  Mark  Wilson  to  re- 
turn to  his  home  and  the  reporter  to  begin 
his  search  for  the  agent  to  whom  he  planned 
to  entrust  the  delivery  of  the  sealed  package 
at  St.  Anne's  Church.  As  he  hurried 
along,  he  had  time  thoughtfully  to  review  the 


174  THE  CONSPIRACY 

exciting  incidents  of  the  last  two  hours.  He 
quite  realised  that  in  aiding  this  girl  he  was 
assisting  a  fugitive  from  justice,  but  he  had 
taken  up  her  cause  and  he  meant  to  see  it  to 
the  finish,  even  if  it  landed  him  in  jail. 
From  now  on  her  battle  was  his;  she  had 
trusted  him  and  he  would  make  good  for  her, 
no  matter  at  what  cost  to  himself.  He  had 
been  looking  for  some  excitement.  "Well, 
I've  got  it  good  and  plenty  now  and  with  a 
little  extra  thrown  in,"  he  thought  with  a 
wry  smile. 

Margaret's  strained,  impassioned  face 
haunted  him  all  the  way.  As  he  went  over 
again  in  his  mind  her  story  that  she  had  so 
falteringly  told  him,  compassionate  tears 
came  to  his  eyes,  and  the  longing  was  strong 
to  take  her  in  his  arms  and  defend  her 
against  all  the  world  if  need  be.  Then  he 
shook  himself.  "Great  Scott!"  he  thought. 
"Am  I  getting  sentimental?  Wake  up,  old 
man!  Wake  up!" 

He  began  his  search  for  Andy  Rivers. 

In  the  midst  of  it  an  idea  flashed  upon 


HOWELL  DOES  THINGS     175 

him  as  with  a  blinding  light.  He  stood 
still  where  he  was,  clutching  at  the  precious 
package  in  his  breast  pocket. 

"Why  didn't  I  think  of  that  before?"  he 
muttered. 

"Dixon!  He's  the  man  for  us  in  this 
crisis.  Well,  of  course!" 

Accordingly  one  Kenelm  C.  Dixon, 
M.D.,  specialist  in  radiography,  received 
an  impetuous  call  from  one  Jack  Howell 
before  the  half  of  a  good  hour  had  passed 
away  that  same  day.  He  knew  Jack  and 
chaffed  him  now  over  his  very  visible  ex- 
citement. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  inquired. 
"Want  an  X-ray  of  your  wish-bone?" 

"Cut  out  the  comedy,"  retorted  Jack, 
pulling  the  mysterious  sealed  package  from 
his  pocket.  "This  is  too  serious.  Here's 
the  idea.  For  certain  reasons,  which  shall  be 
nameless,  this  seal  cannot  be  broken.  Now 
what  I  want  to  know  is,  is  it  possible  to 
take  an  X-ray  of  what  is  written  on  this 
card  inside?  Do  you  get  me?" 


176          THE  CONSPIRACY 

Dixon  took  the  envelope  from  Jack's 
hand  and  examined  it  closely. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  carefully,  "it  might 
be  done  if  it  is  written  in  lead  pencil  or  if 
there  is  any  mineral  matter  in  the  ink 
fluid." 

"Then  go  to  it!"  commanded  Howell, 
helping  himself  to  one  of  Dixon's  cigars  and 
beginning  to  puff  nervously  at  it  as  he 
eagerly  watched  the  specialist  arrange 
the  apparatus  for  the  experiment  that 
meant  so  much  to  him.  "Better  take  four 
or  five  negatives  to  make  sure,"  he  suggest- 
ed: "I  don't  want  to  take  a  chance  at  a 
fizzle." 

Dixon  made  four  exposures  of  the  pack- 
age, while  the  reporter  watched  his  every 
movement  with  intense  absorption.  "When 
can  I  have  the  prints?"  asked  Jack. 

"Some  time  to-morrow,"  replied  Dixon. 
"Where  shall  I  send  them!" 

"Don't  send  them  anywhere.  I'll  call 
for  them  myself;  and  don't  show  them  to  a 
living  soul,"  cautioned  Howell. 


HOWELL  DOES  THINGS    177 

He  had  but  little  time  now  before  ten 
o'clock,  when  the  important  missive  must  be 
placed  in  the  pew  in  St.  Anne's  Church. 
He  rushed  off  again  in  search  of  Andy  Riv- 
ers, found  him  in  a  saloon,  dragged  him  out, 
deposited  him  in  a  taxi,  and  proceeded  in  the 
seclusion  of  the  closed  cab  to  unfold  his 
project  to  the  bibulous  ex-reporter  in  less 
time  than  it  takes  to  say  so. 

"Do  you  want  to  make  five  dollars?"  de- 
manded Jack.  "Real  money?" 

"Sure  I  do!"  answered  the  other. 

"Then  listen,"  Howell  went  on.  "Do  you 
know  where  St.  Anne's  church  is?" 

"Down  town  in  the  Italian  Quarter.  I 
know  it." 

"Good,"  ejaculated  Howell.  "Then  you 
won't  waste  any  time  finding  it."  He  took 
the  package  from  his  pocket  as  he  continued. 
"Now  get  this !  This  cab  is  to  take  us  down 
somewhere  in  the  vicinity  of  the  church. 
You  are  to  enter  the  church,  go  to  the  last 
pew  on  the  right  hand  side,  and  place  this 
package  in  the  book  that  you  will  find  there. 


178  THE  CONSPIRACY 

Do  you  understand?  In  the  last  pew  on 
the  right-hand  side." 

"Say,  what  is  it?  Dynamite?"  queried 
Rivers,  eyeing  the  mysterious  package  with 
a  slight  show  of  nervousness. 

"Nix!  Nothing  like  it.  All  you  have  to 
do  is  to  place  it  in  that  book,  then  walk  out 
of  the  church  and  make  a  get-a-way  as 
though  you  were  scared  to  death." 

"Well,  if  that  package  contains  nitro- 
glycerine you  bet  I  can  look  the  scare  all 
right.  When  do  I  get  the  five?" 

"As  soon  as  we  reach  the  church." 

"You're  on,"  chuckled  Rivers.  He 
thrust  out  his  hand  for  the  package  quite 
keenly. 

"Fine,"  ejaculated  Jack  as  he  handed  it 
to  him.  "Now  tell  the  driver  how  to  get  to 
that  church.  Tell  him  to  get  a  hustle  on. 
We've  no  time  to  lose  if  we're  going  to  put 
this  over  right.  See?" 

Rivers  did  as  Jack  directed,  and  the  cab 
moved  off  in  the  direction  of  St.  Anne's. 
Neither  man  spoke  again,  Howell  absorbed 


HOWELL  DOES  THINGS     179 

in  formulating  his  plans  for  future  action, 
the  other  anticipating  the  night  he  would 
put  in  with  the  promised  five.  Jack  heard 
a  neighboring  clock  tower  strike  nine. 
There  was  still  an  hour  before  the  time  set. 

A  block  away  from  the  church  they  left 
the  cab,  and  Jack,  instructing  his  companion 
to  wait  ten  minutes  before  entering,  left  him 
and  made  his  own  way  to  the  chapel  door 
and  knocked  for  admittance  on  it. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  verger  who 
scrutinised  the  reporter  carefully.  Jack  ex- 
plained that  he  had  been  sent  by  the  electric 
light  company  to  make  an  estimate  for  in- 
stalling power  in  the  organ  loft,  at  the  same 
time  presenting  the  card  of  an  agent  of  the 
company  who  had  wanted  to  wire  his 
mother's  house  in  Jersey.  Satisfied  with 
his  credentials,  the  verger  admitted  him  and 
piloted  him  to  the  loft,  where  he  left  him 
with  pad  and  pencil  in  his  hand  ostensibly 
busy  with  measures  and  figures. 

Left  alone,  the  reporter  glanced  down 
into  the  dimly  lighted  church.  The  pews 


180  THE  CONSPIRACY 

were  vacant,  save  one  on  the  left  side,  near 
the  door,  in  which  he  could  discern  the  bent 
form  of  a  veiled  woman  deeply  engaged  in 
her  devotions.  Moving  back  into  a  shadow 
he  had  a  position  from  which  he  could  com- 
mand a  view  of  the  church  completely,  re- 
maining himself  unseen.  He  glanced  nerv- 
ously at  his  watch:  the  time  was  nearly  up. 
He  began  to  get  uneasy;  he  wished  he  had 
not  given  Rivers  the  money  so  soon:  the 
temptation  of  a  drink  at  a  near-by  saloon 
might  be  too  strong  for  him — the  whole  proj- 
ect might  miscarry.  But  his  anxiety  was 
relieved  in  a  moment,  when  he  saw  Rivers 
enter  the  church  as  they  had  duly  arranged, 
and  make  his  way  to  the  last  seat  on  the 
right-hand  side.  At  the  same  time  Jack 
saw  the  woman  on  the  opposite  side  slowly 
turn  her  head  in  the  new-comer's  direction. 
"H'm,"  he  muttered.  "That's  it,  eh?" 
Rivers  lost  no  time  in  the  execution  of  his 
mission,  and  in  another  moment  hurriedly 
left  the  church.  Eagerly  Howell  watched 
the  woman  to  see  what  move  she  would  now 


HOWELL  DOES  THINGS     181 

make.  For  some  minutes  her  head  re- 
mained bowed.  Then  rising,  she  glanced 
cautiously  all  about  the  edifice,  and  walked 
slowly  over  to  the  seat  in  which  Rivers  had 
been  seated  and  knelt  again  there  devoutly. 

The  reporter  felt  his  heart  beating  like  a 
trip-hammer.  What  should  he  do?  To 
descend  out  of  the  loft  now  might  arouse 
suspicion;  he  might  be  detained  by  the  ver- 
ger's questions.  He  decided  to  take  the 
chance,  the  woman's  movements  were  so  de- 
liberate that  she  probably  would  not  leave 
in  a  hurry.  He  reached  the  front  of  the 
church  without  being  waylaid  at  all  and  lost 
himself  in  the  shadow  of  a  doorway  by  the 
holy  water  font.  He  had  not  long  to  wait 
before  the  veiled  woman  appeared  and 
passed  through  the  vestibule. 

He  followed  her  at  a  safe  distance  until 
she  reached  a  house  on  Fourth  Street,  which 
after  a  hasty  look  up  and  down  the  street, 
she  entered  hurriedly.  Jack  stopped  only 
long  enough  to  make  sure  of  the  number, 
that  he  might  easily  find  it  again,  then  re- 


182  THE  CONSPIRACY 

' '  i 
traced  his  steps  to  the  church  and  made  a 

careful  examination  of  the  prayer  book  in 
the  last  pew  on  the  right-hand  side.  The 
package  was  gone!  His  heart  beat  wild 
with  hope,  for  he  knew  that  he  had  touched 
a  living  clue. 

The  next  morning  after  his  eventful  pil- 
grimage to  St.  Anne's,  Howell  was  touring 
up  and  down  Fourth  Street  in  a  curtained 
taxi,  and  looked  long  at  the  house  into  which 
the  devout,  veiled  woman  had  disappeared 
the  night  before.  It  was  like  all  the  others 
in  the  block  except  for  its  closed  shutters. 
There  were  bars  at  the  attic  windows,  but 
so  were  there  old-fashioned  bars  at  many 
other  windows  in  the  street.  "They  must 
use  the  top  floors  in  this  neighbourhood  for 
babies  and  lunatics,"  thought  Jack. 

Just  across  the  street,  directly  opposite 
the  house  of  mystery,  a  sign  "Rooms  to 
Rent"  in  a  second  story  window  attracted 
his  attention.  "That's  the  gag!"  he  said  to 
himself  excitedly;  "I  couldn't  beat  that  if  I 
cheated!  Driver,  back  to  Broadway!" 


HOWELL  DOES  THINGS     183 

That  night  Mark  Wilson  called  at  the 
house  that  had  the  room  for  rent ;  explained 
to  the  slatternly  woman  who  came  to  the  door 
that  he  was  looking  for  a  room  for  a  friend 
and  himself;  that  the  friend  worked  nights 
and  would  occupy  the  room  during  the  day. 
A  month's  rent  in  advance  satisfied  the  not 
hypercritical  landlady,  and  the  next  morn- 
ing Andy  Rivers,  whom  the  nimble-minded 
Howell  had  attached  to  his  hastily  mustered 
secret-service  bureau  by  means  of  the  prom- 
ise of  a  fat  weekly  stipend,  took  possession 
of  it.  From  that  time  on  Mark  Wilson  by 
night  and  Rivers  by  day  kept  watch  of  the 
house  on  Fourth  Street,  each  man  reporting 
duly  to  Howell  when  he  went  off  duty. 

Meanwhile  the  self-appointed  sleuth  was 
cautiously  and  vigilantly  watching  develop- 
ments and  keeping  his  own  counsel.  Clav- 
ering's  prediction  as  to  the  absurdity  of 
thinking  the  Spanish  woman  the  slayer  of 
Morton  was  fulfilled,  for  after  a  short  de- 
tention she  was  released,  having  established 
an  incontestable  alibi.  "Didn't  I  tell  you 


184  THE  CONSPIRACY 

so?"  the  author  chuckled  gloatingly  to  How- 
ell,  when  he  met  him  on  the  street.  "The 
police!  Huh,  I'll  show  'em  yet." 

In  the  meanwhile  the  excitement  in  the  city 
over  the  sudden  and  mysterious  disappear- 
ance of  the  Assistant  District  Attorney  was 
of  course  intense.  John  McKimmell  was  ill 
from  grief  and  anxiety.  The  papers  were 
full  of  wild  conjectures.  One  report  had  it 
that  Holt  had  been  murdered;  another  that 
he  had  been  abducted;  but  upon  one  point 
they  all  agreed.  The  press  from  one  end  of 
the  country  to  the  other  burst  forth  in  caustic 
editorials  condemning  the  laxity  that  made 
such  an  outrage  possible.  The  thinking 
public  was  horrified  at  the  probable  fate  that 
had  overtaken  its  idolised  official,  and  though 
the  police  were  in  earnest  co-operation  with 
the  District  Attorney,  day  after  day  passed 
by  and  no  trace  of  the  missing  man  could  be 
found. 

Jack  Howell  kept  silent  and  waited. 
He  was  not  actuated  now  by  any  selfish  de- 
sire to  land  a  scoop  and  make  his  lasting  rep- 


HOWELL  DOES  THINGS     185 

utation.  His  heart  and  mind  were  set  upon 
rescuing  Holt  from  the  clutches  of  the  gang 
that  held  him  prisoner ;  the  game  was  deeper 
than  he  had  thought,  but  he  had  taken  a  hand 
in  it  and  would  keep  on  now  without  any 
thought  of  danger  or  reward.  He  must 
work  alone.  The  slightest  suspicion  abroad 
of  what  he  knew  meant  everything  inimical 
to  his  plans.  The  Scarlet  Band  was  watch- 
ing, spying,  waiting,  with  a  knife  at  its  cap- 
tive's heart,  ready  at  a  word  to  close  his  lips 
forever.  The  sentence  in  the  letter: 
"Your  brother  is  safe  as  long  as  nothing  is 
known,"  Howell  felt,  justified  his  caution. 

Three  days  passed  after  his  meeting  with 
Margaret  at  The  Refuge,  before  he  made  an 
attempt  to  see  her  again.  He  feared  the 
wily  old  Clavering  more  than  any  one  else, 
however,  and  he  must  see  if  everything  was 
all  right  in  that  quarter.  Late  one  after- 
noon a  leisurely  stroll  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
novelist's  house  was  rewarded  by  the  sight 
of  the  owner  of  it  just  starting  out  on  his 
evening  walk.  The  reporter  waited  until 


186  THE  CONSPIRACY 

Clavering  had  shambled  off  round  the  cor- 
ner, then  he  boldly  approached  the  house  and 
rang  the  bell.  The  coloured  housekeeper 
at  first  stoutly  refused  to  admit  him,  but 
when,  with  an  ingratiating  smile,  he  pressed 
a  bill  into  her  smoky  palm,  she  grew  more 
tractable. 

"I  got  'splicit  instructions,"  she  informed 
him  grandiloquently,  "not  to  'low  anybody 
in  hyere.  But  I  reckon  if  you'se  come  to 
see  dat  new  type-writer  I  can  just  keep 
m'self  in  ignorance  of  it.  Yars,  Sir!" 

After  this  he  had  made  several  calls  on 
Margaret,  but  they  were  brief,  as  there  was 
always  the  fear  of  Clavering's  return  from 
his  ten  minutes'  exercise.  The  girl  was  very 
brave ;  Howell  knew  that  the  look  of  fear  in 
her  eyes  came  from  worrying  about  her 
brother  as  much  as  for  herself.  When  he 
expressed  anxiety  lest  the  strain  should  be 
too  much  for  her,  she  comforted  him  with 
the  assurance  that  he  could  not  have  found 
a  better  place  for  her.  No  one  ever  came 
to  the  house.  No  one  was  ever  allowed  to 


HOWELL  DOES  THINGS     187 

enter  the  study  but  the  faithful  Martha. 
She,  Margaret,  might  be  living  in  a  distant 
planet,  so  secluded  was  she  from  the  world 
of  men  and  events.  She  acknowledged 
that  the  work  was  hard  and  the  hours  long: 
sometimes  Clavering  would  rouse  her  from 
sleep  even  in  the  middle  of  the  night  to  take 
his  dictation  if  the  inspiration  seized  him; 
but  he  was  not  unkind,  he  seemed  to  like  her 
work,  and  even  praised  her  for  her  speed  and 
accuracy. 

She  listened  with  breathless  interest  to 
every  word  Jack  had  to  tell  her  of  the  prog- 
ress of  his  search  for  Victor.  She  tried  to 
find  words  in  which  to  thank  him,  but  her 
gratitude  was  inexpressible:  the  thing  was 
beyond  words  now  for  both  of  them. 

Jack  wanted  no  thanks  from  her.  It 
seemed  to  him  only  right  and  natural  that  he 
should  protect  and  shield  her.  He  had  made 
no  women  friends  since  he  had  come  to  New 
York.  He  met  a  few  merry,  attractive  girls, 
now  and  then,  and  felt  the  impulse  to  be 
friendly  with  them,  but  his  work  had  en- 


188  THE  CONSPIRACY 

grossed  him  more  than  women.  Because  of 
it,  his  way  had  led  more  in  the  misery  and  pit- 
falls of  certain  phases  of  city  life  and  at  too 
close  range  to  be  attracted  by  mere  froth  and 
glitter.  And  yet  he  had  never  felt  the  neces- 
sity of  rolling  in  the  gutter  to  make  sure 
there  was  one,  though  it  was  an  idea  that  had 
obsessed  a-plenty  of  his  colleagues.  As  man 
and  boy  he  had  lived  cleanly,  enthusiastically, 
with  high  courage  for  himself  and  always  a 
helping  hand  for  others. 

But  now  this  interest  in  Margaret  Holt 
had  won  complete  possession  of  him.  Was 
it  just  sympathy  that  made  this  tugging  at 
his  heartstrings?  Or — he  laughed  as  he 
asked  himself  the  question — had  he  fallen  in 
love  with  the  girl?  "Great  Scott !  I  believe 
I  am  really  getting  dippy!"  he  told  himself. 
"Go  easy,  Jack!" 

A  week  passed  and  still  the  faithful  hench- 
men of  Fourth  Street  could  report  nothing. 
Impatient  to  do  something,  to  make  some 
move,  Jack  tried  to  justify  himself,  mean- 


HOWELL  DOES  THINGS     189 

while,  for  his  enforced  inaction.  "Why 
worry?"  he  kept  asking  himself.  "No  one 
knows  where  she  is.  Why  worry?" 

But  only  the  next  day  something  hap- 
pened that  made  the  little  devils  of  fear  and. 
apprehension  descend  upon  him  again  with  a 
rush.  He  was  reading  the  Evening  Tele- 
scope, and  was  startled  to  see  already  the 
first  instalment  of  Clavering's  new  serial 
entitled  "The  Morton  Mystery." 

Jack's  heart  hammered  in  his  throat. 
"Jupiter!"  he  exclaimed.  "He's  at  it  al- 
ready." Eagerly  he  skimmed  the  sensa- 
tional paragraphs  of  this  hectic  brain.  Yes, 
here  was  Clavering's  familiar  method — the 
circumstances,  even  the  proper  names  trans- 
ferred from  the  news  columns  into  the  chap- 
ters of  his  perfervid  fiction.  The  heroine  of 
the  story  was  a  young  girl  named  Mary 
Hadfield,  who  had  sought  and  found  em- 
ployment with  a  glass  merchant  named  Mor- 
ton. The  concluding  words  of  the  chapter 
made  Howell  turn  white  about  the  lips. 


190  THE  CONSPIRACY 

When  her  employer  had  left  the  room,  with  the 
crouching,  stealthy  step  of  a  panther  this  beau- 
tiful young  girl  went  to  his  desk  where  she  made 
a  hasty  search  through  his  papers.  But  alas ! 
Her  search  was  fruitless.  She  reeled  from  the 
shock  of  disappointment.  She  clutched  at  the 
collar  of  her  dress.  "I  must  find  it!  I  must!" 
she  gasped.  Then  in  the  hall  she  heard  the  sound 
of  his  returning  footsteps.  With  the  quickness  of 
a  cat  she  resumed  her  work  at  the  type-writer,  and 
greeted  her  employer  upon  his  entrance  with  a 
lovely  smile,  little  dreaming  that  behind  the  glit- 
ter of  those  hard,  cold  eyes  the  serpent  of  suspi- 
cion was  beginning  to  uncoil  and  raise  its  hissing 
head. 

Howell  sat  spell-bound.  What  mysteri- 
ous power  directed  the  novelist's  brain? 
How  much  nearer  to  the  truth  would  it  lead 
him  now?  He  thought  of  poor  Margaret 
taking  this  story  down  from  Clavering's  dic- 
tation, and  had  fear  for  her.  Would  she 
betray  herself?  She  had  been  in  perilous 
places  before  and  had  emerged  triumphant, 
but  would  she  endure  this  last  ordeal? 

Another  week  went  by  and  Howell  now 


HOWELL  DOES  THINGS     191 

raged  furiously  with  impatience.  "Have 
you  nothing  at  all  to  tell  me  yet,  Andy?"  he 
demanded,  when  Rivers  came  to  make  his 
usual  report. 

The  ex-reporter  gave  a  discouraged  shake 
of  his  head. 

"Nothing  doing!"  he  said  gruffly.  "I 
wouldn't  stay  in  that  blasted  hole  another 
minute  if  it  wasn't  for  the  pigeons." 

"Pigeons?"  demanded  Jack.  "What 
pigeons?" 

"Well,  you  see  it's  just  this  way,"  said 
Andy.  "I've  watched  that  house  now  for 
nearly  two  weeks,  till  my  nerves  are  so 
shaky  that  I  want  to  yell  if  any  one  looks  up 
at  my  window,  and  not  a  living  soul  have  I 
seen,  man,  woman  or  child,  stir  in  or  out  of 
that  house  yet." 

"Yes,  yes,  yes,  but  what  about  the 
pigeons?" 

"Well,  I've  noticed  that  for  the  last  three 
days  now  a  flock  of  pigeons  have  lighted  on 
the  ledge  in  front  of  that  barred  attic  win- 
dow and  have  been  picking  up  things  as 


192  THE  CONSPIRACY 

though  they  were  eating.  That  may  be  a 
tip  for  us!" 

"I  don't  quite  get  you,"  said  Jack. 

"Some  one  is  feeding  those  birds  there  or 
they  wouldn't  come  so  regularly.  From 
where  I  am  I  can't  get  the  right  angle  on 
that  window  to  see  really  just  what  is  hap- 
pening." 

Howell  gave  a  whoop  of  joy  and  seized 
Andy  by  the  shoulders.  "Have  you  tried 
the  roof?" 

"Not  yet.  You  see  I  didn't  get  wise  to 
the  pigeon  gag  until  to-day." 

Howell  was  fairly  shaking  with  excite- 
ment. "Look  here,  Andy,  you  shift  with 
Mr.  Wilson  to-morrow;  let  him  take  your 
place." 

"All  right!"  agreed  Rivers  cheerfully, 
who  felt  like  welcoming  any  change  in  the 
monotony  of  his  employment.  "But  get 
this,"  he  added.  "No  more  Stealthy  Steve 
in  mine  after  this  job.  See?  Good  night!" 


THE   OTHER   STORY 

THE  queer  old  clock  on  Winthrop  Claver- 
ing's  mantel  struck  the  half  hour. 

"Half-past  four,"  growled  the  novelist, 
"and  I've  been  at  it  since  five  this  morning; 
and  this  chapter  is  not  finished  yet.  I  tell 
you  it  must  be  done  to-night.  What's  the 
last  I  gave  you?" 

He  looked  impatiently  at  Margaret  Holt, 
who  for  the  twelve  hours  had  been  recording 
a  narrative  so  like  her  own  experiences  that 
it  seemed  to  her  the  curious  old  man  there 
must  actually  have  some  occult  power  of 
divination;  she  felt  as  if  he  were  plucking 
threads  from  her  inmost  mind  out  of  which 
to  weave  his  terrible  story.  But  she 
whipped  her  tired  brain  to  obedience  again. 

"Read  it!  Can't  you?  Read  it!"  went 
on  Clavering  querulously. 

193 


194  THE  CONSPIRACY 

She  hesitated  a  moment  over  her  short- 
hand notes,  and  then  read: 

"The  time  had  come  to  fulfil  her  desper- 
ate mission.  It  was  now  or  never !" 

"No,  no!  that  won't  do!  Cross  it  out! 
What's  the  matter  with  my  brain  this  after- 
noon?" The  author  actually  whined  as  he 
paced  the  floor,  trying  by  physical  exertion 
to  stir  the  sluggard  imp  of  his  inspira- 
tion. 

"You  have  been  working  a  long  time," 
suggested  Margaret,  inwardly  praying  for 
some  cessation  of  her  nerve-racking  work. 

"Only  twelve  hours.  My  God!  Have  I 
the  brain  of  a  jelly  fish?" 

Back  and  forth,  back  and  forth  he  raged, 
but  still  the  thoughts  refused  to  flow. 
"H'm,"  he  growled,  "I'll  go  take  my  walk 
now  instead  of  later." 

He  doffed  his  black  skull  cap,  changed  his 
shiny,  dressing  jacket  for  a  shinier  coat, 
struggled  into  his  cape-coat,  and  jamming 
the  big  felt  hat  down  over  his  eyes  stamped 
out  of  the  room  and  down  the  stairs.  The 


THE  OTHER  STORY         195 

exhausted  amanuensis  gave  a  great  sigh  of 
relief  as  she  heard  the  peg,  peg  of  his  stout 
walking  stick  die  away.  Now  at  least  she 
could  have  a  little  air  and  rest. 

She  turned  out  the  light,  then  went  to  the 
windows  and  threw  them  open  wide,  leaning 
against  the  casement  and  looking  out  upon 
the  lighted  street.  Mentally  and  physic- 
ally weary,  too  weary  even  to  fear,  she  told 
herself,  for  ten  days  she  had  endured  an 
agony  of  mind  that  was  beginning  now  to 
produce  a  sense  of  numbness  in  her  brain. 
It  was  her  story  that  Clavering  was  writing 
— hers.  The  incidents  he  used  were  never 
identically  like  the  facts,  yet  they  came  so 
near  the  truth  that  sometimes  it  took  all  her 
power  to  crush  back  the  sob  of  terror  that 
forced  itself  to  her  lips. 

How  much  longer  could  she  hold  out,  she 
wondered  dully.  Not  only  the  mental  strain 
was  telling  on  her,  but  the  confinement,  too, 
the  long  hours  of  work  in  the  smoke-fogged 
room,  were  sapping  her  vitality. 

From  sheer  weakness  she  slipped  down 


196  THE  CONSPIRACY 

on  the  floor,  and  rested  there  by  the  window, 
leaning  her  head  against  its  sill.  The  night 
air  blowing  in  cooled  her  feverish  eyes  and 
head.  She  never  dared  approach  the  win- 
dow in  the  day  time  lest  some  one  in  the 
street  might  see  and  recognise  her.  When 
old  Martha,  the  housekeeper,  entered  the 
room  a  few  minutes  later  she  found  her 
there  still  asleep. 

"Po'  chile!"  she  muttered.  "Fas'  asleep. 
Dat  ole  debble  gwine  to  kill  her  wif  work." 
Martha  liked  the  new  stenographer  better 
than  any  of  the  others  that  had  so  far  had 
the  ill  fortune  to  work  for  Clavering. 
"You's  de  bes'  of  de  ladies  dat  has  had  dis 
job  yet,"  she  continued,  looking  at  the 
sleeping  girl.  "Yo'  ain't  got  none  ob  dose 
high  heel  notions  like  dem." 

Placing  a  tray  of  food  upon  the  table,  she 
went  and  closed  the  windows,  for  the  air  had 
grown  chill.  The  sound  roused  Margaret 
with  a  start;  the  room  was  so  dark  she 
thought  she  must  have  slept  far  into  the 
night.  Then  she  saw  the  kind  face  of  the 


THE  OTHER  STORY        197 

coloured  woman  bending  over  her,  and  knew 
again  where  she  was. 

"What  time  is  it,  Martha?  It's  you,  is 
it?"  she  sighed. 

"Going  on  to  five  o'clock  in  de  ebening, 
Missy." 

"I  must  have  fallen  asleep,"  said  Mar- 
garet. 

"And  a  blessed  good  thing,  too,"  replied 
Martha  sympathetically.  "You  don't  get 
enuff  sleep,  Honey." 

"No,  I  don't  sleep  very  much;  that's 
true.  Has  Mr.  Clavering  returned  yet?" 

"No,"  said  Martha.  "Not  yet.  I  heered 
de  door  close  after  dat  old  crime-eater,  'bout 
twenty  minutes  ago,  an'  I  just  slipped  up 
hyer  wid  someting  t'  eat  f o'  yo' !  Yo'  wasn't 
down  to  lunch  to-day."  Martha  volubly 
disapproved  if  there  were  any  irregularities 
at  meal-time. 

Margaret  shook  her  head.  "We've  been 
at  it  all  day,"  she  said. 

"It's  a  crime!"  expostulated  the  old 
housekeeper.  "A  sin!  Start  work  _  'fore 


198  THE  CONSPIRACY 

sun  up  an'  keep  a  diggin'  till  five  o'clock  in 
de  ebening.  Yo'  ought  t'  jine  de  union  an' 
stick  fo'  eight  hours." 

"Mr.  Clavering  has  to  write  when  the 
spirit  moves  him,  you  know,"  said  Margaret. 

"Huh,"  grunted  the  disgusted  Martha. 
"De  spirit  ought  t'  mobe  him  a  long  way 
off,  I  say." 

She  placed  a  chair  before  the  tray. 

"Come  now,  Honey,  jes'  yo'  take  a  bite," 
she  urged.  "There  ain't  nuthin'  passed  yo' 
lips  since  seven  o'clock  dis  mawnin'.  I 
know  dat." 

Margaret  seated  herself  and  made  an  at- 
tempt at  eating. 

There  was  but  a  dim  light  in  the  room  and 
the  hands  in  the  prints  that  lined  the  walls 
seemed  weirdly  stretching  out  their  fingers 
to  grasp  hers.  The  girl  shuddered.  "Turn 
on  all  the  lights,  please,  Martha,  and  draw 
the  shades,"  she  cried. 

"I  s'pose  he's  workin'  on  dat  new  story 
dat's  runnin'  in  de  Ebenin*  Telescope"  in- 
quired Martha  as  she  obeyed. 


THE  OTHER  STORY         199 

"Yes,  yes,  it  is  the  new  story,"  assented 
Margaret  with  a  nervous  shudder. 

"  'Bout  dat  Morton  murder,  ain't  it?" 

"Yes,  I  believe  he  is  founding  it  on  the 
Morton  murder,"  said  Margaret,  tremu- 
lously. 

"Massa  Claverin'  kin  certainly  write 
about  murders,"  commented  Martha.  "He 
used  to  make  me  listen  t'  his  stories  till  I  got 
so  doff  goned  nervous  dat  I  use  t'  jump  at 
de  sound  ob  my  own  breath."  The  old  darky 
shuddered  elaborately  as  she  bent  to  pick  up 
some  of  the  many  papers  scattered  about 
her  master's  desk. 

Margaret  had  been  trying  to  eat  her  toast 
in  vain.  "Martha,  please  take  the  tray 
away.  I  can't  eat,"  she  said  pleadingly. 

The  coloured  woman  looked  at  her  pale 
face  anxiously.  "Why  don't  yo'  run  out  an' 
take  a  little  walk,  Honey?  Yo'  ain't  been 
outside  this  house  since  yo'  come  hyer,  more'n 
two  weeks  ago,"  she  said  kindly. 

"No,  no,  I  can't  go  out.  They  might — " 
Margaret  stopped  quickly,  then  added: 


200  THE  CONSPIRACY 

"I  must  be  here,  ready  to  take  Mr.  Claver- 
ing's  dictation  when  the  mood  takes  him,  you 
know." 

"De  roses  is  fading  in  yo'  cheeks,  Honey," 
warned  Martha.  "An'  de  fus'  ting  you 
know  yo'll  get  a  sickness.  I  don't  wonder 
yo'  ain't  got  no  affection  fo'  food  wid  dat 
ole  smoke  stack  a-puffin'  all  day  long."  She 
picked  up  Clavering's  blackened  pipe  from 
the  floor  and  with  a  wry  face  deposited  it  on 
the  mantel.  "De  smell  ob  dat  old  pipe 
would  put  shame  in  a  skunk.  He  ain't  got 
no  cause  to  be  so  untidy,  if  he  is  a  story- 
writer.  Ashes  all  over  everything.  I  do 
nothin'  but  sweep  up  pipe  ashes  all  day  long. 
Huh!  I  jes'  wish  dey  was  dat  ole  debble's 
ashes!  Any  idea  how  dat  story's  comin' 
out?  S'pose  he  knows  himself?"  she 
branched  off. 

"Sometimes  I  think  he  does,"  said  Mar- 
garet. 

"My  gran'  chile's  been  readin'  de  chap- 
ters t'  me  as  dey  come  out  in  de  Telescope" 
began  Martha  again;  "powerful  bright  chile 


THE  OTHER  STORY         201 

dat  Mose.  Las'  time  de  young  beautiful 
lady  was  workin  fo'  de  villun,  an'  he'd  begun 
t'  s'picion  her."  Her  eyes  grew  white  as 
she  proceeded.  "Den  de  villun,  he  laid  a 
trap  to  cotch  her,  an'  den,  jes  as  we  got  all 
fussed  up  fer  someting  t'  happen,  Massa 
Claverin'  he  say  'T'  be  continued  in  our 
nex'!'  Jes'  as  I  got  my  breath  already  fer 
a  big  gulp — " 

"Yes,  yes,"  interrupted  Margaret.  "It 
is  very  exciting,  isn't  it?  But  don't  let  me 
keep  you  from  your  work." 

"Oh,  I  ain't  so  crazy  'bout  work  dat  I 
can't  hab  a  few  lingerin'  moments'  talk.  I 
s'pose  dere's  a  murder  in  de  nex'  chapter?" 
she  persisted. 

"I  don't  know,"  Margaret  answered 
shortly. 

"Well,  some  one's  got  t'  get  killed  in  de 
nex'  chapter,  or  dere'll  be  a  heap  ob  disap- 
pointin',"  complained  this  unwilling  though 
garrulous  consumer  of  the  Clavering  classics. 

Her  eyes  lighted  on  the  tray,  still  full  of 
food.  "Why,  chile,  yo'  ain't  tasted  a  thing. 


202  THE  CONSPIRACY 

Fust  yo'  know  yo'  stummick  will  jes'  go 
ker-flummick.  Why  don't  yo'  get  dat 
young  man  who's  buzzin'  roun'  tryin'  to 
bust  in  hyere  t'  take  yo'  fo'  a  ride  in  one  ob 
dem  chukerty  cabs,  h'm?" 

An  imperative  ring  at  the  bell  interrupted 
the  flow  of  words.  "Now  who  can  dat  be?" 
speculated  Martha. 

The  sound  and  the  old  negress's  last  words 
had  sent  a  touch  of  colour  to  Margaret's 
pale  face.  Perhaps  it  was  Howell  again 
with  some  news  of  Victor.  Howell  had 
been  the  only  person  to  ring  that  bell  since 
she  had  come  to  this  queer  house.  Again 
came  a  peel  that  echoed  through  the  hall. 

"Hurry!"  she  called  to  Martha. 

The  negress  gathered  up  the  tray.  "If 
it's  dat  young  man  ob  yours  I  certainly  am 
goin'  t'  'fuse  t'  mission  him.  If  dat  ole 
debble  eber  finds  out  I  let  him  in  before 
dere'll  be  anudder  murder  to  write  a  story 
about,  an'  dis  chile'll  be  de  mangled  corpse." 

She  went  out,  and  Margaret  listened  and 
heard  her  open  the  front  door.  Howell's 


THE  OTHER  STORY        203 

eager  voice  rose  to  her  as  he  parleyed  with 
the  obdurate  housekeeper.  "No,  yo'  can't 
come  in  hyer  agin,"  Martha  was  protesting. 
"Massa  Clavering  done  tole  ma  neber  to  let 
no  one  in  while  he's  inspiring." 

"Is  that  so,  Sappho?  Well,  take  this  and 
buy  yourself  a  limousine." 

Next  moment  Martha's  voice  rose  again 
in  a  pretended  grumble. 

"Well,  you  come  in,  but,"  she  added  with 
a  chuckle,  "remember  you  bust  right  in 
ober  my  dead  body." 

And  indeed  Howell  was  up  the  stairs  in 
a  bound  and  grasped  Margaret's  out- 
stretched hands  in  the  study  while  the  old 
mammy  was  still  expostulating. 

As  the  door  closed  behind  them,  Jack 
could  see  that  the  poor  girl  was  shivering  so 
that  she  could  hardly  stand.  "My  dear 
child,"  he  sai  danxiously,  "what  is  it?"  and 
put  his  arms  about  her. 

She  felt  his  tender,  protecting  touch  and 
an  overwhelming  flood  of  feeling  swept  over 
her.  Her  breath  came  hurriedly,  and  with 


204  THE  CONSPIRACY 

a  little  sobbing  cry  she  leaned  her  head 
against  his  shoulder,  her  body  shaken  by  a 
perfect  paroxysm  of  sobs.  At  first  Jack 
made  no  effort  to  quiet  her,  thinking  that  the 
storm  of  emotion  at  last  would  ease  the 
strain;  just  once  he  bent  and  touched  her 
hair  with  his  lips  very  tenderly. 

When  her  sobs  grew  fainter  he  began  to 
talk  to  her.  He  was  very  gentle,  but  she 
felt  his  strength  lifting  her  with  every 
cheery  word.  "Come  now,  Margaret,"  he 
said.  "Steady,  now.  You're  not  going  to 
give  out  now,  you  know." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Howell,"  she  pleaded,  "I  can't 
go  on.  I  can't  go  on." 

Howell  turned  to  her  quickly,  "Can't  go 
on?"  he  asked.  "Why?  What  has  hap- 
pened?" 

"Oh,  everything!  That  awful  old  man! 
He's  so  dreadful!" 

"Clavering!"  he  cried,  his  hands  clenched. 
"Has  he  insulted  you?" 

"Oh,  no,  no;  not  that.  It's  this  story  that 
he  is  writing.  My  own  story.  He  is  un- 


THE  OTHER  STORY         205 

canny,  terrifying.  He  has  brought  it  up 
now  to  the  very  day  of  the  murder,  and 
nearly  everything  that  he  says  is  true.  I 
don't  know  how  he  knows!  To-night  he 
will  begin  the  chapter  of  the  murder.  How 
can  I  sit  there  calmly  and  take  down  his 
dictation?  I  shall  betray  myself!  I  tell 
you  it  is  driving  me  mad!"  A  terrified  ex- 
citement lighted  her  strained  face  and  her 
great  eyes  burned  feverishly. 

Howell  took  her  two  hands  in  his  and 
spoke  again,  almost  sternly.  "Steady  now, 
Margaret!  It  may  not  last  much  longer. 
I  have  some  news  for  you." 

His  voice  and  the  import  of  his  words 
quieted  her  at  once.  "Some  word  from 
Victor?"  she  questioned  tremulously. 

"Not  that!  But  I  think  that  I  may  have 
soon,"  he  said.  Then  in  hurried  words  he 
told  her  of  his  discovery  of  the  house  and  the 
pigeons.  She  listened  breathlessly,  cling- 
ing to  his  hand  unheedingly.  "Your  Uncle 
swears  that  he  saw  your  brother  at  the  win- 
dow there  in  Fourth  Street.  He  believes 


206  THE  CONSPIRACY 

your  brother  understands  from  Wilson's 
signal  that  he  is  to  get  a  message  to  us 
somehow." 

The  girl's  face  became  transfigured  with 
the  light  of  this  new  hope.  "Victor!  Then 
he  is  alive !  Thank  God !  Oh,  thank  God  1" 
she  cried. 

"And  is  Uncle  Mark  watching  the  house 
now?"  she  questioned  eagerly. 

"You  bet  he  is,"  said  Jack.  "He  is  a 
game  old  boy,  Nunky.  He'll  spot  any  mes- 
sage that  comes  through,  I  tell  you.  We 
must  not  make  a  move  until  we  get  that  mes- 
sage. Now,  don't  you  worry!"  he  added, 
the  tenderness  creeping  into  his  voice 
again. 

"But  meanwhile  they  may  kill  him,"  ex- 
claimed Margaret. 

"No,  'Your  brother  is  safe  as  long  as  noth- 
ing is  known.'  That's  what  they  wrote,  you 
know.  They  have  kept  their  word  so  far. 
But  we  can't  take  this  risk  with  old  Claver- 
ing  any  longer.  He's  the  only  one  we  have 
to  fear  now.  He  has  boasted  he'd  walk  into 


THE  OTHER  STORY         207 

Headquarters  with  'that  stenographer'  yet, 
you  know,  from  the  beginning." 

"I  know!  I  knowl  He  would  have  no 
mercy,"  Margaret  cried.  "None!" 

"Well,"  said  Jack,  "that's  hard  to  say 
about  the  old  curmudgeon.  He  may  have 
some  bowels  of  compassion.  On  the  other 
hand  you  may  be  quite  right.  He  might 
take  you  to  Headquarters  with  a  brass  band 
heading  the  procession.  He  might  give  up 
his  own  mother  to  satisfy  his  vanity.  The 
old  devil!" 

"What  can  we  do?"  pleaded  Margaret. 

"Get  you  out  of  here,"  he  answered 
promptly.  "That's  one  thing  we  must  do." 

"Oh,  thank  God  you  think  so!"  cried  poor 
Margaret. 

"I  have  been  thinking  so  ever  since  I  read 
the  first  instalment  of  his  story,"  went  on 
Jack,  "and  now  I've  made  up  my  mind  defi- 
nitely. We'll  smuggle  you  off  to  my  moth- 
er's in  New  Jersey.  Yesterday  I  told  her 
the  whole  story." 

"You  told  her  everything?"  cried  Mar- 


208  THE  CONSPIRACY 

garet.  Her  face,  which  had  been  pale, 
flooded  rosy  with  colour.  "Oh,  you  should 
not  have  done  that.  It  was  not  safe." 

"Now  listen  to  me,  Margaret,"  Jack  said 
quietly.  "Your  story  is  as  safe  with  my 
mother  as  with  the  sphinx.  She's  the  best 
little  mother  in  the  world,  too."  His  voice 
broke  for  a  moment  as  he  went  on:  "Her 
arms  are  waiting  to  take  you  in  just  as  if 
you  were  her  own  little  girl."  He  saw  the 
tumult  of  emotion  his  words  had  caused  and 
hurried  on:  "Mother  has  a  little  house 
down  in  Jersey  which  she  is  going  to  open," 
he  explained.  "She  will  take  you  there  and 
keep  you  till  we  have  your  brother  safe  and 
sound  in  New  York."  He  added,  in  a  de- 
termined tone  that  was  in  itself  an  augury  of 
success;  "And  we'll  do  it  now,  too,  don't 
you  fear." 

"And  then — and  then — "  faltered  Mar- 
garet, "I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  stand  trial 
for  murder."  She  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands  and  shuddered  at  the  thought. 


THE  OTHER  STORY         209 

Jack  gave  an  answering  exclamation  of  hor- 
ror. "My  dear  child,"  he  cried,  "have  you 
had  that  on  your  mind  with  all  the  rest? 
Why,  don't  you  know  you  have  but  to  tell 
your  story  to  the  District  Attorney  and 
you'll  be  hailed  as  the  liberator  of  your  city? 
Oh,  my  dear,  you  do  believe  me,  don't  you? 
Promise  me  you  will  not  let  yourself  think  of 
that  again!" 

"I  promise,"  she  said,  smiling  wanly. 
She  held  out  both  hands  to  him.  "Why  are 
you  so  good  to  me?"  she  asked. 

"Margaret,  don't  you  know?  Can't  you 
see?"  pleaded  Jack. 

"See?"  she  echoed  brokenly. 

"Margaret!"  He  seized  her  by  the  shoul- 
ders, with  a  grip  that  hurt  her.  "Put  that 
look  out  of  your  eyes,"  he  commanded. 
"Do  you  think  I'm  a  scoundrel?  I  want 
you  for  my  wife,  to  care  for  you,  to  love 
and  protect  you  as  I  never  believed  I  could 
want  anybody  in  this  world.  Margaret, 
don't  you  see?" 


210  THE  CONSPIRACY 

She  looked  up  into  his  face  with  eyes  of 
wondering  misery.  "Have  you  forgotten?" 
she  whispered  to  him. 

"Forgotten!"  he  repeated.  His  lips 
twisted  into  a  strange  smile.  "My  God! 
Can  I  ever  forget?  There  are  moments 
when,  if  I  could  dig  my  fingers  into  the 
throat  of  any  cur  that  so  much  as  laid  a  fin- 
ger on  you  there  is  no  awful,  bloody,  man- 
gling thing  I  would  not  do  to  him." 

His  face  was  ghastly  under  its  tan,  his 
eyes  aflame.  A  little  cry  came  from  Mar- 
garet's lips,  and  he  turned  away  quickly, 
saying  with  a  rough  laugh:  "Oh,  I  guess 
I'm  the  original  cave-man  all  right,  when  it 
comes  to  avenging  the  woman  I  love." 

The  girl,  with  a  pitiful  attempt  at  light- 
ness in  her  voice  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoul- 
der, mimicking:  "Steady,  Jack!  Steady 
now." 

For  reply  he  drew  her  tender  fluttering 
hand  down  and  held  it  firm  in  his.  "Mar- 
garet, do  you  love  me?"  he  demanded. 

"No,  Jack,  no — I  can't — I  must-™" 


THE  OTHER  STORY        211 

"Is  there  any  one  else?"  he  interrupted 
fiercely. 

"No,  no,  no!"  she  denied,  in  a  very  pas- 
sion of  expostulation. 

"Then  why?"  demanded  Jack  again.  "Is 
it  that  you  can't  care  for  me,  you  think?" 

"I  must  not  care  for  you;  you  must  not 
ask  me,"  said  Margaret. 

"Why?" 

"Jack,  you  know  why,"  she  went  on 
bravely.  "I  put  all  thought  of  love  and 
marriage  out  of  my  life  forever  four  years 
ago." 

"Margaret!"  cried  Jack.  "Do  you 
think — ?  Margaret,  my  poor  little  girl. 
Why  your  heart  is  as  pure — "  He  opened 
his  arms  again,  to  fold  her  to  his  heart  and 
seal  the  sentence. 

"Oh,  please,  please!"  she  cried.  "Don't! 
I  must  not  let  you —  Besides,  it  is  not  that 
alone- — I  must  go  on  in  this  work  I've  taken 
up.  Other  girls  must  be  saved — Oh!  don't 
you  understand?" 

"Yes,  Margaret,  I  understand,"  said  Jack 


212  THE  CONSPIRACY 

quietly.  "But  you  can't  go  on  alone.  I'm 
with  you  in  the  work  now,  you  know." 

"Oh,  and  that  too,"  cried  Margaret. 
"You  don't  know  how  it  troubles  me  that 
I've  dragged  you,  too,  into  danger.  I — " 

"Then  you  do  care?"  put  in  Jack  eagerly. 

"No,  no,  I  don't,"  she  said  with  sobbing 
breath.  "Not  that  way.  I—" 

Howell  put  one  arm  around  her  shoul- 
ders and  with  her  pretty  chin  cupped  in 
his  other  hand  raised  her  face  to  his  until 
he  could  look  deep  into  her  eyes.  "Mar- 
garet, look  at  me,"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
of  tender  authority.  "We'll  have  no  false 
pride.  We  will  have  no  evasions.  Sup- 
pose you  put  this  through,  suppose  we  bring 
this  gang  to  justice,  as  you  and  your  brother 
and  now  I  with  you,  have  planned — what 
then?" 

"Why,  then,"  said  Margaret,  "we'll— " 

A  knock  on  the  door  and  Martha's  voice 
in  a  stage  whisper,  "It's  me,  Missie,"  inter- 
rupted her. 

Howell   opened   the   door,   with   ill-con- 


THE  OTHER  STORY         213 

cealed  disappointment,  and  the  old  negress 
entered  stealthily. 

"Martha,  Martha,  what  is  it?"  cried  Mar- 
garet feverishly,  before  the  woman  had  a 
chance  to  speak. 

"There's  a  man  down  stairs,  Honey,  who 
says  he  must  see  yo',"  said  Martha. 

The  girl  cast  a  terrified  glance  at  Howell. 

"But  he  ain't  so  young  nor  so  scruntious- 
lookin'  as  this  one,"  she  added,  with  a 
chuckle  and  a  broad  wink  at  Jack.  "Shall 
I  let  him  up?" 

Before  the  question  could  be  answered 
Mark  Wilson  pushed  by  the  housekeeper 
and  entered  the  room,  breathless  from  ex- 
citement and  hurry. 

Margaret  saw  him,  and  gave  a  low  cry  of 
relief  and  ran  to  him.  "Oh,  it's  you,  Uncle 
Mark,"  she  sobbed,  "only  you." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

TO   BE   CONTINUED 

MARTHA  blinked  the  whites  of  her  old  eyes 
sympathetically  upon  the  situation. 

"Yars,  he  said  as  how  he  was  your  uncle," 
she  interposed;  "and  as  I  ain't  got  no  spe- 
cial orders  to  keep  out  relations  I  just  let 
him  in.  I  tole  him  dere  was  a  young  man 
a  buzzing  roun'  here,  an'  when  he  come  up 
he'd  better  knock  on  de  doh.  I  tole  him  he 
wouldn't  find  no  'Welcome'  on  de  mat  in 
front  of  it.  No,  suh!"  She  gave  a  mean- 
ing wink  at  Howell  as  she  left  the  room  upon 
this  comment. 

"Uncle  Mark,  tell  us,  did  you  get  any- 
thing?" interrogated  Margaret  and  the  re- 
porter of  their  new  visitor. 

The  old  man  told  his  story  breathlessly, 
exhausted  as  he  was  from  his  unusual  exer- 
tion. "After  you  left,  Howell,"  he  began, 

214 


TO  BE  CONTINUED          215 

"I  went  back  to  the  roof,  you  know,  in 
Fourth  Street.  I  watched  until  I  saw  a 
hand  thrust  through  the  bars  of  that  window 
there,  and  make  a  motion  of  dropping  some- 
thing. Then  I  made  my  way  as  rapidly  as 
possible  to  the  street  again.  A  lot  of  ur- 
chins had  collected  in  front  of  the  empty 
house,  and  were  looking  at  something  in  the 
hand  of  one  of  them.  They  talked  and  kept 
looking  upward,  as  though  what  they'd 
found  had  dropped  from  the  sky.  'What 
you  got  there,  boys?'  I  said,  as  I  walked  up 
to  them,  and  I  tried  to  laugh.  'Gee,  I  guess 
it's  a  riddle.  It's  got  my  goat,'  said  one  of 
them  as  with  a  shake  of  his  head  he  held  out 
a  linen  rag  which  I  could  see  had  writing  on 
it.  I  tell  you  my  heart  was  beating  when 
I  took  the  thing  from  that  boy's  hand.  'I 
guess  some  one's  been  kidding  you  boys,' 
I  said  and  walked  carelessly  off,  the  thing 
still  in  my  hand,  as  calmly  as  I  could.  Once 
I  turned  the  corner  I  jumped  into  a  taxi  and 
here  I  am." 

Margaret  seized  the  piece  of  cloth  her 


216  THE  CONSPIRACY 

uncle  held  out  to  her  and  studied  it  intently. 

"It  is  a  message!  It  is,  it  is!"  she  cried 
exultantly,  and  hurried  from  the  room.  In 
a  moment  she  was  back  again  with  a  small 
note-book  in  her  hand — a  cipher.  She 
spead  the  rag  out  on  the  table  and  seated 
herself,  Howell  looking  over  her  shoulder, 
his  brow  wrinkling  in  perplexity  at  the 
blurred  scrawl  she  held  before  her. 

"Fire  —  escape  — quintus — blue — coats — 
cord  from  old  rug — ground  work — dusk." 

"What  is  it?"  he  demanded.  "Can  you 
make  it  out?" 

"It  is  in  our  private  cipher,"  Margaret 
explained.  She  turned  the  leaves  of  the 
book  in  her  hand  rapidly  and  went  on  with 
her  code. 

"Immense!"  ejaculated  Howell.  "Sorry, 
Mr.  Wilson,"  he  went  on,  turning  to  the 
elder  man,  "but  I'll  have  to  ask  you  to  get 
back  to  that  house  just  as  quick  as  your 
legs  will  take  you.  And  don't  leave  it  for 
a  minute  if  you  have  to  bring  it  with  you. 
Don't  take  your  eyes  from  it." 


TO  BE  CONTINUED         217 

"I  know,"  said  Wilson.  "Ill  go.  Will 
you  be  there  soon?" 

"Yes,  just  as  soon  as  we  dig  out  this  ci- 
pher. Hurry!"  In  his  excitement  he  al- 
most pushed  Mark  Wilson  from  the  room. 

"Can  you  make  it  out?"  he  asked  as  he 
joined  Margaret  at  the  table. 

"Yes.  The  first  word,  'fire-escape,' 
means  'Am  closely  guarded !' ' 

"Good!     Good!     Now  quintus." 

"Quintus,  quintus — "  she  repeated. 
"Yes,  here  it  is— fifth  floor." 

Howell  put  the  words  together.  "Am 
closely  guarded:  'Fifth  floor.'  Bully! 
We're  getting  it !  Now  'blue  coat !' ' 

"Blue  coat — blue  coats,"  she  murmured 
as  she  turned  the  pages;  "I  have  it;  it 
means,  'Don't  bring  police.' ' 

"Well,  I  should  say  not!"  ejaculated  the 
reporter.  "Now  let  me  see,  what's  the 
next:  'Cord  from  old  rug.'' 

For  a  few  seconds  the  girl  searched,  then 
shook  her  head  in  puzzled  disappointment. 
"There  is  no  key  to  that  here,"  she  said. 


218  THE  CONSPIRACY 

But  after  a  moment's  thought,  she  added, 
"Oh,  yes,  that  must  be  it!  He  has  made  a 
cord  from  an  old  rug!" 

Howell  jumped  to  his  feet  as  he  caught 
the  significance  of  the  words.  "You  have 
it!  That's  it!"  he  cried.  "He's  going  to 
communicate  with  us  by  means  of  that  cord ! 
The  rest!  Now  quick!  quick!  'Ground 
work  at  dusk.'  What  does  that  mean?" 

A  moment's  hasty,  trembling  search, 
then  Margaret  read:  "Will  lower.  Will 
lower?"  She  looked  at  the  reporter  ques- 
tioningly. 

"Don't  you  get  it?  Don't  you  see?"  cried 
Jack.  "He  will  lower  that  cord  at  dusk." 
His  eyes  were  blazing  and  his  face  grew 
crimson  with  excitement.  "Am  I  a  sleuth! 
Are  we  sleuths,  you  and  I?"  he  almost 
shouted.  Then  he  pointed  to  the  window. 
"Look,  it  is  long  after  dusk  now.  Perhaps 
the  cord  is  there  already.  I'll  get  a  return 
message  up  to  him  if  I  have  to  climb  up  the 
cord  with  it  myself." 


TO  BE  CONTINUED         219 

"But  you'll  be  careful,"  cautioned  Mar- 
garet, "won't  you?  Remember  there's  dan- 
ger?" 

"Oh,  hell  with  danger!  Oh,  my  dear,  I 
beg  your  pardon,"  he  added  contritely. 

Snatching  a  piece  of  paper  he  hastily 
scribbled,  reading  aloud  as  he  wrote: 
"Friends  are  watching.  How  strongly 
guarded?  Strike  match  at  window  when 
ready  to  return  answer." 

He  folded  the  paper  and  put  it  in  his 
pocket,  then  turned  to  Margaret  again. 
"There!  He'll  be  wise  to  that.  Now  keep 
your  nerve,  little  girl,  until  to-night.  Re- 
member, I'm  with  you."  He  caught  her 
hands  in  his  and  laid  his  lips  on  them,  un- 
rebufFed.  "Margaret,  you  are  not  to  forget 
what  I  said  to  you,"  he  commanded.  "Re- 
member!" 

Again  the  wonderful  smile  flashed  in  her 
eyes.  "I'm  only  afraid  it's  you  that  may 
want  me  to  forget,"  she  said. 

He  held  her  hands  as  in  a  vise,  and  his  face 


220  THE  CONSPIRACY 

was  grim  with  determination  as  he  answered, 
huskily:  "You  must  believe  me,  whatever 
happens — I — >" 

The  slamming  of  the  front  door  and  the 
peg-peg  of  a  walking  stick  in  the  hall  froze 
the  words  on  his  lips.  "Is  that  Clavering?" 
he  asked  Margaret,  hurriedly,  as  he  saw  her 
face  turn  white  and  her  eyes  grow  large  with 
apprehension. 

"Yes!  Yes!  That  awful  man.  I'm 
terrified  at  the  very  sound  of  his  feet,"  she 
breathed. 

"Courage!"  Jack  whispered  to  her. 
"You  must  not  give  way  now.  Remember 
what  it  means.  Remember  that  we  are 
working  to  save  Victor,  and  that  he  will  get 
a  message  to  us  to-night." 

At  his  words  her  faltering  spirit  rallied. 
"I'll  try,  oh,  I'll  try,"  she  whispered  back; 
"I  will  do  my  very  best." 

An  angry  roar  at  the  door  made  them 
both  turn  suddenly. 

"I  thought  you  told  me  you  didn't  have 
a  feller!"  yelled  Clavering,  looking  at  Mar- 


TO  BE  CONTINUED         221 

garet  vindictively,  furious  at  this  invasion 
of  his  sanctum,  sanctorum.  He  directed  an 
annihilating  glance  at  Howell  too,  who  was 
making  desperate  attempts  to  meet  the  situ- 
ation with  placid  unconcern  so  far  as  Mar- 
garet was  concerned. 

"Now  get  into  your  reverse,  and  back  up, 
Little  Nemo,"  he  taunted,  trying  to  draw 
the  novelist's  fire  upon  himself. 

"Don't  call  me  Little  Nemo!"  Clavering 
roared,  shaking  his  cane  at  Howell  threaten- 
ingly. "What  business  have  you  here  in 
my  house,  anyway,  I  should  like  to  know? 
I  told  that  black  devil  never  to  allow  any  one 
up  here.  Any  one!  Get  out!  And  you," 
he  added,  turning  to  the  trembling  girl, 
"You  get  to  work!  No  feller,  indeed!" 

With  a  final  outburst  he  shambled  off  into 
his  bedroom  to  change  his  coat. 

Howell  hurriedly  approached  Margaret 
again.  "I  will  get  you  out  of  here  some 
way  to-night,"  he  whispered.  "Don't 
fear!" 

"Oh,  can't  you  take  me  now?"  she  pleaded. 


222  THE  CONSPIRACY 

"No.  He  must  not  know.  He'd  raise  a 
row.  What  time  does  the  old  dub  sleep?" 

"He  never  sleeps,"  sighed  Margaret. 

"Could  you  get  out  about  nine  o'clock?" 
persisted  Jack. 

"Yes;  I  can  and  I  will,"  replied  Mar- 
garet with  determination,  ready  to  take  any 
chance  now  that  should  free  her  from  the 
strain  of  Clavering's  dictation. 

"Then  meet  me  half  way  down  the  block 
at  nine,"  said  Jack.  "I  will  be  there 
with  a  taxi."  He  broke  off  abruptly  and 
commenced  whistling  an  airy  bit  from  "The 
Pink  Lady"  as  Clavering  came  back  into  the 
room. 

"You  here  yet?"  exclaimed  the  criminolo- 
gist  irascibly.  "Can't  you  find  the  door? 
There  it  is.  And  when  you  leave  take  the 
stairs  up  with  you,  so  you  can't  come  back." 

The  reporter  gave  no  sign  of  perturba- 
tion. "Now  don't  get  excited,"  he  cau- 
tioned. "Just  wait  till  you  hear  why  I 
called." 

"I  know  why.     To  see  her." 


TO  BE  CONTINUED          223 

"Oh,  guess  again,"  said  Jack. 

"Then  why?"  asked  Clavering.  "The 
devil  knows  I  didn't  invite  you.  I  wouldn't 
deprive  him  of  your  company,"  he  chuckled, 
his  little  eyes  twinkling  malevolently.  He 
turned  to  the  mirror  to  adjust  his  black 
skull-cap. 

"The  Sunday  Editor  told  me  to  call  and 
ask  if  you  can  have  your  next  chapter  ready 
for  Saturday,"  said  Jack. 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  can  or  not," 
snapped  Clavering.  "You  can  tell  your 
Sunday  Editor  that  he'll  have  it  when  I  get 
it  good  and  ready,  and  if  he  sends  you  here 
again  he  won't  get  it  at  all.  My  brains  are 
at  my  command.  Not  his,"  he  shouted. 

"Well,  if  your  brains  were  at  my  com- 
mand," retorted  Jack,  "I'd  have  them 
canned  and  put  on  the  market  as  an  after 
dinner  nut.  Good-night!" 

With  this  parting  shot  the  reporter 
slammed  the  door  and  departed.  Margaret 
stifled  a  little  sob  of  terror  as  she  heard  the 
outer  door  bang.  He  had  gone  and  left  her 


224  THE  CONSPIRACY 

alone.  There  was  nothing  that  she  could 
do.  Fate  held  her  in  its  net  and  held  her 
fast.  She  heard  the  clock  strike  and  her 
thoughts  came  back  as  from  a  long  distance. 

"Twenty-one  —  twenty-two  —  twenty- 
three—" 

She  looked  in  the  direction  of  the  voice. 
Clavering  was  at  his  hourly  exercises,  his 
wrath  forgotten  for  the  moment. 

But  only  for  a  moment.  "That's  a  fool 
reporter,*  he  growled,  as  soon  as  he  had  re- 
covered sufficient  breath.  "How  am  I  go- 
ing to  finish  my  story  if  I  am  disturbed  in 
this  way?"  He  wheeled  round  on  Mar- 
garet with  vehemence.  "He  came  to  see 
you,  I  know.  Does  he  think  he  can  fool  me? 
ME?  Now  if  you've  got  any  love  affairs 
you  keep  them  outside  my  house.  Do  you 
see?" 

"Mr.  Clavering — "  protested  Margaret 
indignantly. 

He  cut  her  short.  "Don't  give  me  any 
argument.  I  got  a  new  train  of  thought  in 
my  walk  and  that  idiot  has  driven  it  out  of 


TO  BE  CONTINUED          225 

my  head.  Where's  my  pipe?  Where  in 
hell  is  my  pipe?"  he  demanded,  searching 
vainly  on  his  table. 

"Martha  was  here  a  little  while  ago;  per- 
haps she  knows,"  suggested  Margaret. 

"Oh,  she  never  knows  anything.  She 
never  did  and  she  never  will  know  any- 
thing," he  sputtered.  He  went  to  the  head 
of  the  stairs  and  called  her.  "Martha! 
Martha!"  he  yelled.  "Come  up  here!" 

Hasty  shuffling  foot-steps  sounded  on  the 
stairs  as  the  poor  negress  obeyed  her  mas- 
ter's imperative  summons.  "Yas,  sir!  I'se 
a  comin',  I'se  a  comin',"  she  panted. 

"Well,  stop  coming  and  get  here,"  he 
shouted  back.  Then  in  a  moment  he  re- 
lapsed into  a  whining  tone.  "Everything 
to  disturb  me  to-day.  Don't  do  that!"  he 
snarled  at  Margaret,  who  was  sharpening 
her  pencil. 

Martha  entered,  puffing  from  the  effort 
of  her  hasty  ascent  of  two  flights  of  stairs. 
"Did  yo'  call  me,  sah?"  she  asked. 

"Call  you?    What  did  you  think  I  was 


226  THE  CONSPIRACY 

doing?  Taking  vocal  exercise?  Where's 
my  pipe?" 

"Whar  did  yo'  leave  it,  sah?" 

"I  don't  want  to  know  where  I  left  it.  I 
want  to  know  where  it  is,"  shouted  the  au- 
thor. 

"Let  me  think.  Whar  did  I  see  dat 
pipe,"  said  Martha,  scratching  her  head  as 
if  to  stimulate  remembrance. 

"Stop  scratching  your  head,"  com- 
manded her  employer.  "If  you've  got 
such  a  thing  as  a  thought,  don't  disturb  it. 
Ah!  Here  it  is,"  he  ejaculated,  finding  the 
pipe  at  last  on  the  mantel,  and  filling  it  from 
his  tobacco  jar. 

"Huh!"  muttered  Martha,  "I  always  find 
dat  nasty  thing  on  the  floor.  S'pose  I  ain't 

got  nothing  else  t'  do,  side  huntin'  fo'  dat. 
j " 

"Stop  muttering,"  shouted  Clavering. 
"If  you've  got  anything  to  say,  speak  up. 
Do  you  hear?  Speak  up!" 

"Yes,  sah!"  bellowed  Martha.  "Yes, 
sah!" 


TO  BE  CONTINUED         227 

"Don't  shriek  at  me,"  complained  Claver- 
ing  petulantly.  "And  why  did  you  let  that 
fool  reporter  up  here?  Haven't  I  told  you 
never  to  allow  any  one  in  this  house? 
Haven't  I?" 

"No,  sah.  Yes,  sah,"  stammered  Martha. 
"I  tole  him  he  couldn't  come  in,  but  he  jes' 
busted  in  right  by  me." 

"Well,  if  you  let  him  in  again  I'll  skin 
you  alive,  do  you  hear?  Now  get  out!" 

Martha  threw  one  irate  glance  at  her  em- 
ployer and  banged  the  door  as  she  left  the 
room,  adding  fresh  fuel  to  Clavering's  irri- 
tation. 

"Everything  to  annoy  me  to-day,"  he 
whimpered,  like  a  great  baby,  as  he  struck 
another  match  for  his  pipe.  "Had  the  fin- 
ish of  this  chapter  worked  out  beautifully. 
It  all  came  to  me  in  my  walk,  and  now 
it's  gone.  Left  me,"  he  went  on  mourn- 
fully. 

He  struck  his  fifth  and  successful  match 
at  last,  changed  his  spectacles  and  placed 
his  manuscript  before  him.  <fWell,  well, 


228  THE  CONSPIRACY 

let's  get  at  it!  Where  were  we?  Read  the 
last  I  gave  you." 

With  a  little  silent  prayer  for  courage  to 
go  on,  Margaret  began  to  read  her  notes. 

"  'For  a  thrilling  moment  the  woman 
stood  silent,  motionless.  She  could  scarcely 
credit  her  good  fortune;  the  golden  oppor- 
tunity to  search  for  the  coveted  information 
had  come.  She  listened.  But  no  sound 
reached  her  waiting  ears.' ' 

"Waiting  ears,"  repeated  Clavering. 
"Waiting  ears.  Now  let's  see." 

He  paused  a  moment,  picturing  in  his 
mind  the  room  at  the  Beaumont,  no  slightest 
detail  of  which  had  escaped  his  ferret-like 
eyes  on  his  visit  to  it  that  memorable  after- 
noon. 

"The  door  to  Morton's  bedroom  was  over 
there,"  he  mused  aloud.  "The  room  in 
which  the  stenographer  worked  there;  and 
the  desk  with  the  telephone  down  there." 
He  indicated  the  positions  with  his  hand  as 
he  spoke.  "That's  right,  isn't  it?"  he  in- 
quired of  Margaret  suddenly. 


TO  BE  CONTINUED         229 

Startled  she  replied,  "Why,  how  should  I 
know?" 

"Why?  Good  Lord!  Haven't  you 
heard  me  go  over  it  times  enough  to  know?" 
he  inquired  testily.  "Oh,  all  you  think  of  is 
getting  your  salary,  I  suppose."  Then  he 
began  pacing  up  and  down  the  well-worn 
track  on  the  faded  red  carpet,  repeating  to 
himself:  "Listening  ears.  Listening  ears. 
What  was  that  word  I  had?  Stream? 
Current?  Ah!" — bringing  his  hands  to- 
gether with  a  resounding  smack — "Tide. 
That  was  it.  Tide !  Now  it's  coming  back. 
Ready?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Margaret,  gripping  her 
pencil  to  keep  it  steady  in  her  trembling  fin- 
gers. 

'  'At  last  the  tide  had  turned  in  her  fa- 
vour. She  was  alone  in  the  room  of  the  man 
she  hated  with  all  the  power  of  her  heart. 
Suddenly,  realising  this — ' ' 

He  paused,  as  if  some  word  he  uttered  had 
struck  a  discordant  note.  "No!  No,  that 
won't  do.  Not  enough  distinction  in  that. 


230  THE  CONSPIRACY 

Change  it  to:  'Realising  this  in  one  blind- 
ing thought,  that  swept  across  her  brain  with 
the  vividness  of  a  flash  of  forked  lightning, 
she  sprang  forward  with  quick,  stealthy 
steps  to  take  advantage  of  her  oppor- 
tunity.' " 

Margaret's  pencil  slipped  from  her  fin- 
gers. Her  lips  parted  as  if  she  must  cry 
out  to  him  to  stop. 

'  'Reaching  the  desk,'  "  he  went  on,  "  'she 
tried  to  pry  open  the  top,  then  began  hunt- 
ing feverishly  among  the  papers,  in  the 
drawers,  for  the  object  of  her  search.  Alas, 
it  was  not  there.  Like  a  baffled  animal 
hunting  its  prey  she  paused.  But  she  was 
not  the  woman  to  be  beaten  by  one  disap- 
pointment. She  continued  her  desperate 
search.  Reaching  the  table  by  the  window 
she  knelt,  and  ripping  up  the  edge  of  the 
carpet,  with  an  exultant  cry,  she  drew  forth 
the  paper  she  had  been  working  months  to 
capture.'  Got  all  that?" 

With   an   air   of   satisfaction    Clavering 


TO  BE  CONTINUED         231 

paused  to  relight  his  pipe,  and  the  girl 
gripped  her  table  in  a  mighty  effort  at  self 
control. 

"Ha!"  chuckled  the  novelist,  pleased  and 
gratified  with  the  thrilling  portrayal;  "I 
suppose  you  wonder  how  I  knew  that?" 

"Well,"  stammered  Margaret,  trying  to 
conceal  her  terror.  "It  is  rather — " 

"Not  at  all,"  he  interrupted  her.  "Sim- 
ply observation  and  common  sense.  Just 
common  sense.  Nothing  else." 

Margaret  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  and 
breathed  more  easily.  If  that  were  all! 
She  had  feared  he  might  be  trembling  on  the 
verge  of  one  of  his  curious,  terrifying  intui- 
tions. 

"And  of  course  the  fool  police,"  went  on 
Clavering,  "never  bothered  to  investigate 
the  edges  of  the  carpet  as  I  did.  Old  grape 
nuts  knew  enough  for  that!  And  I  found 
that  a  tack  had  been  pulled  up  under  the 
table  by  the  window  and  the  dust  there  had 
been  disturbed.  Only  spot  where  it  was. 


232  THE  CONSPIRACY 

H'm,"  he  grunted.  "It's  an  old  trick! 
Used  it  in  one  of  my  own  stories  once ;  that's 
how  I  happened  to  look  there." 

"But  how  did  you  know  that  a  paper  was 
hidden  there?"  questioned  Margaret  nerv- 
ously. 

"Well,  it  couldn't  very  well  have  been  a 
brick  house,  now,  could  it?"  he  vouchsafed. 
"Where  were  we?" 

Where  were  they?  It  was  unnecessary 
to  refer  to  her  notes,  the  words  were  fairly 
dancing  before  her  eyes,  burned  into  her 
brain !  '  'Drew  forth  the  paper  she  had  been 
working  months  to  secure,'  "  she  repeated 
faintly. 

"  'She  had  been  working  months  to  secure. 
— But  even  as  she  did  so,  a  sound  fell 
upon  her  waiting  ears  that  sent  a  cold  thrill 
of  horror  to  her  heart — Some  one  was  mov- 
ing in  the  room,  behind  her/  Put  that  last 
sentence  in  italics.  That's  the  end  of  that 
chapter.  Now  put  'To  be  continued  in  our 
next/  " 

"Martha !    Bring  up  some  drinking  water 


TO  BE  CONTINUED          238 

and  have  it  cold  too,  do  you  hear?"  he 
shouted  out  into  the  hall. 

"Yes,  sah!"  came  up  the  response  from 
the  nether  regions. 

"Rather  thrilling,  that  last  chapter,  I 
think,"  he  remarked  to  Margaret,  in  a  tone 
of  self-gratulation.  "Knew  that  I  could 
make  a  story  of  that  Morton  murder,  soon 
as  I  heard  it.  It's  all  true,  too.  Ha!  If 
the  police  would  only  read  my  stories  in- 
stead of  following  up  senseless  clues  they 
might  catch  that  woman  easily.  Might 
catch  her  myself,  eh?  And  show  'em  there's 
a  little  air  left  in  'that  flat  tire'  yet."  Evi- 
dently Captain  Ryan's  words  still  rankled 
in  his  soul.  "Maybe  I'll  catch  her  yet, 
maybe  I  shall,"  he  mused  as  he  paced  the 
floor  of  the  study  back  and  forth. 

"Catch  her!  Catch  her!"  the  words 
burned  themselves  still  deeper  into  Mar- 
garet's brain  as  with  shaking  fingers  she  tried 
to  type  out  the  last  of  Clavering's  chapter. 

"Here's  de  water,  sah,  and  de  ebenin'  pa- 
pers," announced  Martha,  coming  in  with 


234  THE  CONSPIRACY 

a  disgusted  sniff  at  the  smoke-laden  atmos- 
phere. 

Clavering  took  the  papers  and  settled 
down  in  his  chair  to  search  their  pages. 

"What's  this?"  he  exclaimed.  Excitedly 
he  began  to  read  aloud :  '  'PLAN  TO  STOP 

CRIME  WAVE  IN  NEW  YORK  *  *  *  BOARD  OF 
ALDERMEN  OFFERS  REWARD  FOR  DETECTION 

OF  CRIMINALS  *  *  *  Owing  to  the  un- 
paralleled wave  of  crime  that  has  swept 
over  New  York  city,  and  because  of 
the  many  atrocities  that  have  gone  un- 
punished, the  Board  of  Aldermen  this 
morning  passed  a  resolution,  offering  a 
reward  of  five  hundred  dollars  for  informa- 
tion that  will  lead  to  the  arrest  and  convic- 
tion of  the  perpetrator  of  each  of  the 
following  crimes:  The  murder  of  William 
Cutler  in  Bronx  Park  on  October  thirtieth. 
The  abduction  of  Willie  Saphiro  in  Brook- 
lyn on  November  first.' ' 

"I  found  out  that  one,"  commented  Clav- 
ering with  conviction.  "He  got  away  to 
Europe.  I  told  the  police  how  to  catch  him. 


TO  BE  CONTINUED          235 

but  they  laughed  at  me."  He  glowered  into 
space  for  a  moment,  then  continued: 
'The  blowing  up  of  the  house  at  17  Grand 
Street  on  December  first  and  the  killing 
of  twelve  Italians!  Huh!  Black  Hand 
stuff!  No  interest  in  that!" 

At  the  next  item  Margaret's  heart 
stopped  beating  for  a  moment,  then  gal- 
loped on  like  a  race-horse:  "'Murder  of 
James  Morton  at  the  Hotel  Beaumont'  "• — 
Clavering  sat  bolt  upright  and  scanned  the 
lines  again  intently.  "What  do  you  think 
of  that?"  he  ejaculated. 

"Of  what?"  inquired  the  girl  with  as- 
sumed curiosity. 

"Five  hundred  dollars  offered  for  the  ar- 
rest of  that  stenographer." 

"What  stenographer?" 

"Why,  the  one  who  killed  James  Mor- 
ton. The  woman  we've  been  writing 
about,"  Clavering  explained,  looking  at  her 
shrewdly. 

He  rose  again  and  began  to  pace  the  floor 
excitedly.  "Five  hundred  dollars!  That 


236  THE  CONSPIRACY 

is  a  lot  of  money !  And  think  of  the  glory  of 
catching  her  too!  That's  worth  as  much  as 
the  reward  in  advertising  alone !"  His  colour 
rose  in  his  cheeks  and  his  eyes  glittered. 
"I  ought  to  be  able  to  catch  that  girl! 
What's  my  imagination  worth  if  I  can't  work 
that  out?  The  clue  ought  to  come  to  me, 
just  as  it  did  in  the  case  of  Father  Domin- 
ick.  I  literally  imagined  how  that  crime 
was  committed.  Pictured  the  murderer, 
too,  and  it  all  turned  out  very  nearly  as  I 
had  described  it  in  my  story." 

He  caught  up  the  paper  again  and  read: 
"  'Any  one  having  information  regarding 
the  above,  write  or  call  on  Inspector  Mc- 
Kim,  Police  Headquarters,  250  Centre 
Street.  Telephone  3000  Spring/  " 
"McKim?"  said  Margaret;  "is  he—?" 
"Well,  well!"  interrupted  her  tormentor 
unheedingly,  and  dropped  the  paper  and 
rubbed  his  hands  together  chuckling  exult- 
antly. "I'll  get  her!  I'll  get  her!"  he 
cried.  "I've  got  it  all  in  my  mind  right  up 
to  the  point  of  her  disappearance.  But 


TO  BE  CONTINUED         237 

that'll  come  too!  That'll  come!  I  never 
knew  how  the  Priest's  assassin  got  away 
from  the  church  undetected,  but  I  imagined 
that  he  put  on  some  of  the  robes  he  found  in 
the  vestry;  and,  by  Jupiter,  that  was  the 
very  thing  he  really  did.  What  do  you 
think  of  that?"  he  demanded,  pointing  his 
long,  bony  finger  at  Margaret.  "Huh! 
You  think  I  know  nothing  about  the  detec- 
tion of  criminals,  eh?  Well,  I'm  going  to 
show  you  that  I  do.  I'm  going  to  show  you 
by  describing  in  the  very  next  chapter  just 
how  that  crime  was  committed." 

"But  how  can  you?  That  would  be  im- 
possible!" exclaimed  the  girl.  In  spite  of 
the  danger  closing  in  upon  her  she  could  not 
but  feel  a  curious  interest  in  the  remark- 
able uncanny  workings  of  this  old  man's 
mind. 

"Impossible,  is  it?"  he  muttered,  ram- 
ming a  fresh  charge  of  inspiration  into  the 
bowl  of  his  pipe.  "We'll  see!  Now,  we'll 
go  on  again.  Chapter  eight.  THE  CEIME 
* — no,  no,  make  it  THE  MURDER/' 


238  THE  CONSPIRACY 

"The  Murder,"  Margaret  wrote  down, 
and  for  a  moment,  in  the  stillness  of  the 
room,  she  thought  her  heart  must  be  beating 
loud  enough  for  Clavering  to  hear. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE   MURDER 

"THE  Murder!" 

Clavering  tasted  the  words  upon  his  lips 
like  an  epicure  with  an  inviting  dish.  "Got 
that?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Well,  then,  now:  ready."  He  took  his 
favourite  pose,  with  one  hand  resting  on  the 
table,  his  other  outstretched  and  holding  his 
pipe,  and  began  his  dictation.  "  'For  a  brief 
thought  the  woman  stood  motionless,  trans- 
fixed with  terror.'  .  .  .  No,  make  it  hor- 
ror. .  .  .  'Transfixed  with  horror!  And 
then  slowly,  summoning  her  whole  strength, 
with  one  supreme  effort  she  faced  about. 
.  .  .  The  man  in  whose  room  she  thought 
she  was  alone  .  .  .  the  man  whom  she 
hated  and  feared  most  in  all  the  world,  was 

239 


240  THE  CONSPIRACY 

standing  there  with  his  back  to  the  bedroom 
door,  watching  her,  a  cruel  smile  in  his  leer- 
ing eyes.' ' 

He  paused  to  search  for  a  match  and  Mar- 
garet gave  a  gasping  cry.  Clavering  heard 
it,  and  turned  quickly  to  see  his  assistant 
sitting  with  her  face  buried  in  her  trembling 
hands. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?"  he  inquired 
fretfully.  "You're  not  sick,  are  you?" 

Margaret  forced  a  little  laugh,  desperately 
shaking  off  the  sensation  of  faintness  that 
threatened  her.  "Oh,  no,  no,  it's  nothing. 
Only  it  was  such  a  tense  moment  in  the  story. 
You  made  it  so  real  that  I  just  felt  I  must 
scream  for  the  girl."  This  time  the  laugh 
was  more  successfully  hysterical. 

For  a  moment  a  smile  lighted  up  Claver- 
ing's  scowling  face.  Here  was  real  appre- 
ciation of  his  genius.  None  of  his  other 
stenographers  had  ever  been  more  than  dum- 
mies ;  this  one  had  imagination. 

"You  bet  I  make  them  real,"  he  chuckled, 
"and  it's  going  to  be  even  more  real  pres- 


THE  MURDER  241 

ently.  Now,  ready."  His  long  arm  began 
its  gesticulation.  "  'For  a  tense,  breathless 
moment  the  two  regarded  each  other  in  si- 
lence. It  was  the  man  who  spoke  at  last. 
...  In  a  sneering  voice  he  taunted  her 
.  .  .  telling  her  he  had  trapped  her,  and 
demanding  the  paper  she  had  stolen.  .  .  . 
But  the  woman  stood  her  ground,  defying 
him  to  do  his  worst.  .  .  .  Then  suddenly, 
as  the  man  realised  the  danger  that  the  in- 
formation she  had  in  her  possession  might 
hold  for  some  one  .  .  .  some  one  he 
wanted  to  save,  he  grasped  the  telephone  on 
the  desk  to  warn  those  in  danger  .  .  .' ' 

"No,  no!  It  was  not  to  warn!"  cried 
Margaret,  impelled  as  if  by  some  hypnotic 
power  to  tell  the  truth.  Too  late  she  real- 
ised what  she  had  done,  and  shrank  from  the 
anger  of  Clavering's  face. 

"How  do  you  know?  Am  I  writing  this 
story,  or  are  you?"  he  roared. 

"I  beg  your  pardon!"  she  said  pleadingly. 
"I  was  so  interested."  Again  she  gave  a 
nervous  little  laugh.  "Do  you  know  I  find 


242  THE  CONSPIRACY 

I  can  hardly  help  working  out  that  plot  my- 
self?" 

"Oh !  You  want  to  be  a  novelist,  do  you?" 
he  grunted.  "Well,  be  one,  and  starve  1" 
He  stood  for  a  moment  trying  to  pick  up 
the  thread  of  his  narrative.  "What  did  you 
interrupt  me  for?"  he  snarled,  helpless  until 
his  eyes  fell  upon  the  telephone  on  the  desk. 

"Oh,  I  have  it!  'He  seized  the  telephone 
on  the  desk  to  warn  those  in  danger. 
"Quick,"  he  cried,  "give  me  the  Cafe  Rossa- 
mano!"  (The  proprietor  may  not  like 
that,  although  he  ought  to  pay  me  a  thousand 
dollars  for  the  ad.  Make  it  the  Cafe  Ros- 
sini.) '  "Give  me  the  Cafe  Rossini.  Quick!" 
he  cried.  .  .  .  The  woman,  determined  not 
to  be  thwarted  in  her  purpose,  sprang  to- 
wards the  desk.  .  .  .  There,  lying  on  the 
table  was  a  stiletto.  ...  As  the  murderous 
thing  caught  her  gaze,  a  glittering  steel-like 
look  flashed  into  her  grey  eyes.' ' 

"Grey  eyes!"  cried  Margaret.  The  words 
brought  her  to  her  feet.  Was  this  another 
freak  of  his  imagination,  or  was  he — "How 


"SHE  HAD  EYES  LIKE  YOURS,  ANT)  SHE  WAS  ABOUT  YOUR  HEIGHT,  TOO." 


THE  MURDER  243 

did  you  know  her  eyes  were  grey?"  she 
stammered. 

"How  did  I  know  her  eyes  were  grey?" 
He  looked  over  his  spectacles  at  her.  "I 
know  it  by  the  study  of  inclinations.  Did 
you  think  I  selected  the  colour  at  random? 
Brown-eyed  people  never  have  self-control 
enough  to  commit  desperate  deeds.  Nor  do 
blue-eyed  people;  nor  have  they  the  quick- 
ness required  in  such  a  crisis  as  this.  She 
had  grey  eyes,"  he  snapped  emphatically. 
He  moved  a  step  nearer  to  the  girl  and 
peered  into  her  big,  startled  eyes.  "Eyes 
just  like  yours,"  he  said. 

"Like  mine?"  she  echoed,  shrinking  back 
from  his  piercing  scrutiny. 

"Yes.  She  had  eyes  like  yours,  and  she 
was  about  your  height,  too,"  he  added,  as 
with  a  calculating  glance  he  took  her  meas- 
ure. 

"Why?"  she  asked  breathlessly.  "Why 
do  you  think  that?" 

"She  must  have  been  about  your  height  to 
strike  the  blow  at  the  angle  she  did.  Like 


244  THE  CONSPIRACY 

that !"  He  made  as  if  he  were  striking  him- 
self above  the  heart,  to  illustrate  his  point. 

Margaret  was  held  as  in  a  spell  by  his  eyes. 
Magnified  by  the  powerful  lenses  of  his  spec- 
tacles they  seemed  to  bore  into  her  very  mind 
like  a  drill.  He  extended  his  long  arm  to- 
wards her.  "Look  here!"  he  exclaimed,  as 
if  struck  by  a  sudden  thought. 

The  girl  grew  rigid.  What  was  coming? 
Was  he  going  to  proclaim  her  the  murderer 
of  James  Morton  then  and  there? 

"Look  here,"  he  said  again,  "when  this 
story  is  published  in  book  form  and  the  ar- 
tist begins  his  illustrations  I'm  going  to  have 
you  pose  for  him." 

At  this  sudden  drop  from  tragedy  her 
face  crimsoned,  then  went  white  again;  and 
then  a  sudden  impulse  seized  her  to  escape 
from  his  magnetic  power.  "Mr.  Clavering," 
she  called  out,  "I  can't  go  on  with  your 
work.  You  will  have  to  get  another  stenog- 
rapher," she  protested. 

At  her  announcement,  the  glass  of  water 
that  he  was  in  the  act  of  swallowing  almost 


THE  MURDER  245 

strangled  him.  "Can't  go  on?"  he  coughed 
and  sputtered.  "What  are  you  talking 
about?  Why  can't  you  go  on?" 

"For  two  days  now  I  have  had  only  three 
hours'  sleep,"  she  answered  tremulously, 
"and  I  am  breaking  down  under  the  strain. 
You  will  have  to  get  some  one  else.  I  can't 
go  on." 

She  turned  wearily  to  the  door,  as  if  her 
departure  were  a  thing  immediate. 

"Wait  a  minute!"  he  cried,  catching  her 
by  the  arm.  "You  mustn't.  I  can't  get 
any  one  else  now.  I  must  finish  this  chapter 
to-night.  Wait!"  he  begged  almost  pite- 
ously,  as  she  shook  her  head.  Then  he 
changed  his  tone  and  tried  flattery.  "You're 
the  best  one  I've  ever  had  to  take  my 
dictation.  You're  a  steady  girl,  always 
ready  for  work,  never  want  to  go  out.  Per- 
haps you  are  only  nervous.  You  do  look  a 
little  peaked,  I  see."  He  half  pushed,  half 
led  her  back  to  the  table  as  he  talked,  pat- 
ting her  shoulder  encouragingly.  "Now 
we'll  work  till  eight  o'clock,  and  then  I'll 


246  THE  CONSPIRACY 

send  you  with  Martha  to  the  moving-picture 
show.  There,  there."  He  placed  her  pen- 
cil in  her  nerveless  fingers.  He  fumbled  in 
his  pocket  and  then,  as  if  he  were  trying  to 
soothe  an  unhappy  child,  "Have  a  pepper- 
mint?" he  asked,  and  offered  her  a  candy 
which  he  pulled  out  of  a  paper  bag. 

"No,  I  thank  you,"  she  declined  mechan- 
ically. 

Could  she  go  on  till  eight  o'clock,  she  won- 
dered. She  had  promised  Jack  to  try.  She 
would  try,  once  more.  She  took  up  her  pen- 
cil, with  unconquerable  will.  "I  am  ready, 
Mr.  Clavering,"  she  said. 

"Good  girl!  Good  girl!"  he  said,  and 
patronisingly  patted  her  arm.  "Come  on! 
Come  on!  We've  been  wasting  time.  We 
must  get  along  with  the  work.  What  was 
that  last  I  gave  you?" 

And  Margaret's  voice  was  steady  again 
now  as  she  read :  '  'For  an  instant,  as  the 
murderous  thing  caught  her  gaze,  a  steel-like 
look  flashed  into  her  grey  eyes.' ' 

"Yes,  yes!     That's  it!"  he  nodded.  "'A 


THE  MURDER  247 

steel-like  look  flashed  into  her  grey  eyes.' ' 

For  a  moment  the  novelist  stood  in  con- 
templation, then  as  was  his  custom  he  began 
to  work  out  what  he  called  the  "Mechanics" 
of  his  situation. 

"Let's  see.  The  stiletto  was  lying  on  the 
table  there — He  was  stabbed  in  the  left  side 
—So  he  must,  then,  have  been  standing  with 
his  right  side  to  the  table."  He  put  himself 
in  the  imaginary  position,  raising  the  tele- 
phone on  his  desk  in  his  left  hand,  "with  the 
'phone  like  this,"  he  added.  Then  as  he  felt 
the  situation  grow  he  turned  to  Margaret 
and  commanded :  "Come  here !" 

Slowly,  as  if  drawn  to  him  against  her  will, 
she  obeyed  his  summons. 

"Now  we'll  suppose  that  you  are  the 
woman,  standing  there,"  he  said  excitedly, 
not  noticing  her  shudder  at  his  words.  He 
took  a  long  dagger-like  paper  knife  from  his 
desk.  "Here,  take  that,"  he  commanded, 
and  placed  it  in  her  hand. 

The  vision  which  the  feel  of  the  cold  metal 
conjured  up  in  her  made  her  close  her  eyes 


248  THE  CONSPIRACY 

and  bite  her  lips;  nevertheless  she  did  what 
she  was  told  to  do. 

"Now  where  would  you  strike  me?"  Clav- 
ering  asked  her,  as  though  he  were  a  surgeon 
lecturing  at  a  clinic. 

"Where?  ...  I  ..." 

She  raised  her  arm  with  the  knife  gripped 
in  her  hand,  then  with  an  exclamation  of  hor- 
ror threw  the  shining  thing  far  from  her,  and 
reeled  backward  almost  fainting. 

Clavering  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?  How  white 
you  are!  What  ails  you?"  he  cried  out. 

"It's  nothing,  nothing,"  she  protested 
eagerly.  "It's  only  that  you  are  making  it 
so  real." 

"Of  course  I  make  it  real,"  he  said. 
"That's  why  people  read  my  stories.  But 
for  God's  sake  don't  faint,"  he  pleaded  as 
he  helped  her  to  the  table.  "We  can't  spare 
the  time.  I  like  to  dictate  to  you.  you  feel 
things  so."  Again  he  thrust  the  pencil  be- 
tween her  fingers.  "Come  on,  now,"  he 
urged,  his  eyes  snapping  with  enthusi- 


THE  MURDER  249 

asm;  "I'm  just  beginning  to  feel  this  my- 
self." 

He  stopped  and  picked  up  the  paper  knife 
from  the  floor  where  it  had  fallen.  "Now 
get  this,"  he  began — "  'With  a  sudden  im- 
pulse she  clutched  the  handle  of  the  stiletto, 
and  plunged  it  deep  into  his  villainous 
heart!  He—'" 

But  at  this  critical  moment  the  door-bell 
rang  persistently. 

"Thank  God!"  Margaret  ejaculated  so 
fervently  that  Clavering  turned  upon  her 
with  an  angry  scowl. 

"What's  the  matter  now!"  he  demanded. 

"The  door-bell  rang,"  she  said  weakly. 

"Well,  let  it  ring,"  he  shouted.  "Where 
were  we?"  He  tried  in  vain  to  recover  the 
interrupted  thought.  "Now  you've  thrown 
me  off  again,"  he  complained  peevishly. 
He  looked  at  the  paper  knife  in  his  hand  and 
it  spoke  to  him  as  a  prompter  from  behind 
the  scenes.  His  eyes  brightened.  "Now  I 
have  it,"  he  went  on.  "  'She  plunged  the 
knife  deep  into  his  villainous  heart — ' ' 


250  THE  CONSPIRACY 

"Tap,  tap,"  came  from  some  one  at  the 
door. 

"There's  some  one  knocking,"  Margaret 
said  to  him. 

"I  don't  care  if  there  is!"  bellowed  the 
frantic  author.  "I  don't  intend  to  be  dis- 
turbed when  I'm  dictating.  'Plunged  it 
deep  into — ' ' 

"Rap,  rap,  rap." 

"There  it  goes  again,"  he  almost  cried. 

"Shall  I  see  who  it  is?"  persisted  the  girl. 

"No!  Sit  down.  I  won't  be  bothered," 
he  thundered.  '  'Plunged  it  deep  into  his 
villainous  heart,'  "  he  repeated  at  the  top  of 
his  voice,  as  if  to  drown  out  any  other  sound. 
The  knocking  at  the  door  sounded  again 
more  loudly.  "Oh,  pshaw!"  he  groaned 
despairingly,  dropping  his  arm  to  his  sides. 
"How  can  I  concentrate  my  thoughts  with 
that  racket  going  on?  Tell  me  that,  will 
you?  How  can  I  dictate  when  I'm  dis- 
turbed like  that?  Well,  who  is  it?"  he 
shouted  to  the  door. 

"It's  me,  sah,"  came  in  Martha's  voice. 


THE  MURDER  251 

Clavering  gripped  the  knife  in  his  hand 
and  strode  to  the  door.  "What  do  you 
want?"  he  demanded.  "What  do  you 
want?"  he  cried,  flourishing  the  knife 
above  her  head.  "You  black  chimpanzee! 
Haven't  I  told  you  never  to  disturb  me 
when  I  am  dictating?  Haven't  I?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sah!"  gasped  Martha 
with  chattering  teeth.  "I  done — " 

"No,  you  won't  beg  my  pardon.  Don't 
you  dare  to  beg  my  pardon,"  he  yelled. 
"What  is  it?  What  do  you  want?  Can't 
you  talk,  you  screw-eyed,  flat-nosed  Sene- 
gambian — you — you — "  He  broke  off  with 
a  fantastic  cry,  "I  can't  think  of  enough  bad 
adjectives  to  use  on  you!" 

"Well,  if  you  find  any,  I  hope  dey  choke 
you,"  Martha  found  breath  to  retort  at  last. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  he  demanded. 

"Dere's  a  lady  down  stairs,  and  she  wants 
t'  see  you  very  pertickler,"  explained  Mar- 
tha. 

"I  don't  know  any  ladies,  and  I  won't  see 
her,"  said  Clavering. 


252  THE  CONSPIRACY 

"She  wrote  something  on  dis  yere  card," 
persisted  Martha.  "She  said  to  give  it  to 
you  and  you'd  see  her  sure." 

Clavering  snatched  the  card,  which  had  a 
deep  mourning  border,  from  Martha's  hand. 
"Let  me  see  it,"  he  said,  and  as  he  looked  at 
it  Margaret  saw  his  shaggy  eyebrows  rise  in 
an  expression  of  keen  surprise.  "Is  she 
down  stairs?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  sah,"  said  Martha. 

"I'll  see  her.  But  tell  her  to  think  of  what 
she  has  to  say  on  the  way  up,  and  say  it 
quick  when  she  gets  here." 

"Yes,  sah,"  said  the  housekeeper  and 
shuffled  out  and  down  the  stairs. 

More  than  ever  with  a  sense  of  impending 
danger  Margaret  followed  the  old  negress 
outside  the  door.  She  must  get  to  her  room 
somehow,  she  thought,  before  this  other 
woman  saw  her,  whoever  she  was.  Who 
could  she  be,  this  mysterious  person  who 
sought  an  interview  with  one  who  kept  him- 
self so  secluded  from  the  outer  world? 

Clavering  looked  hard  at  the  card  he  held 


THE  MURDER  258 

in  his  hand,  snapping  its  edges  irritably,  and 
suddenly  his  eyes  lighted.  "A  relative  of 
the  late  James  Morton,  she's  written  here," 
he  muttered. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  he  demanded, 
seeing  her  manoeuvre. 

"Why,"  stammered  Margaret,  "I  sup- 
posed of  course  you'd  want  to  see  her  alone." 

Her  answer  seemed  to  satisfy  him. 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course.  You  get  a  little  rest 
while  I  see  her.  We  must  finish  that  chap- 
ter to-night,  mustn't  we?  I'll  call  you  when 
she  goes.  A  relative  of  the  late  James 
Morton.  Huh!  I  may  get  some  informa- 
tion from  her  about  that  stenographer." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A  RELATIVE  OF  THE  LATE  JAMES  MORTON 

IT  was  a  very  sable  draped  figure,  the  face 
concealed  by  a  heavy  crepe  veil,  that  Martha 
conducted  into  Clavering's  study  a  moment 
later.  The  housekeeper  stood  in  open- 
mouthed  wonder  watching  the  woman  as  she 
glided  into  the  room.  Her  curiosity  was 
nipped  short  by  her  employer  calling  sharply 
to  her:  "Well,  are  you  a  relative  of  James 
Morton  too?" 

"No,  sah,  no,  sah,"  stammered  Martha. 
"I  ain't  never  had  no  relatives  like  dat." 

"Then  get  out,"  was  the  testy  command. 

"Yes,  sah,"  answered  Martha,  closing  the 
door  as  slowly  as  she  could,  to  get  another 
look  at  the  black  spectre. 

Before  addressing  his  mysterious  visitor, 
Clavering  looked  her  over  from  head  to  foot 

254, 


A  RELATIVE  255 

with  a  scrutinising  stare.  "You  want  to 
see  me?"  he  asked  curtly.  "Well,  then,  be 
quick.  I've  only  a  few  minutes  to  spare  for 
you." 

"You  are  Mister  Clavering?"  began  the 
woman. 

"You  know  I  am,"  he  snapped.  "There's 
a  minute  wasted  asking  that!  You  wrote 
on  this  that  you  were  a  relative  of  the  late 
James  Morton  who  was  murdered  at  the 
Hotel  Beaumont." 

The  woman  took  a  cautious  look  about  the 
room  before  replying,  "Si,  Senor." 

"Senor?"  Clavering  raised  his  eyebrows. 
"Oh,  you're  a  Spaniard,  are  you?" 

"Yes.     My  name  is  Juanita  Perez." 

She  gave  another  look  at  the  doors  as  she 
inquired  in  an  eager  voice,  "You  speak 
Espagnol?" 

"No,  no,  but  you  need  not  be  afraid,"  he 
answered,  noticing  the  nervous  shifting  of 
her  head.  "Raise  that  veil.  I  can't  talk 
with  any  one  with  a  lace  portiere  over  her 
face." 


256          THE  CONSPIRACY 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  then  threw  back 
the  thick  crepe. 

"Ah!"  ejaculated  Clavering.  "Yes,  I 
can  see  that  you  are  a  Spaniard.  And 
you're  a  relative  of  Morton's,  are  you?"  He 
brought  his  hand  down  upon  the  table  with 
a  thump  of  satisfaction.  "I  said  in  the  be- 
ginning he  was  a  Spaniard,  or  an  Italian; 
and  I  was  right."  His  little  eyes  began  to 
snap  as  he  leaned  forward  to  begin  his  cross- 
examination.  "What  relation  was  the  mur- 
dered man  to  you?" 

"He — he  was  my  uncle." 

"Oh,  he  was,  eh?  H'm,"  he  pondered  to 
himself,  "she  doesn't  seem  to  be  cock-sure 
of  it."  Then  aloud,  as  she  began  to  shift 
uneasily  under  his  steady  gaze,  he  went  on: 
"Well,  what  did  you  come  to  see  me  for?" 
He  was  tapping  with  the  paper  knife  upon 
the  table  impatiently. 

"Because  I  think  that  you  can  help  me," 
said  the  woman. 

"Help  you?"     His  long  neck  protruded 


A  RELATIVE  257 

from  his  collar  with  a  jerk.  "Why  should 
I  help  you?"  he  asked. 

"I  have  been  reading  your  clever  story  of 
the  Morton  Mystery  as  it  came  out  in  the 
paper — "  the  visitor  went  on. 

"Nothing  strange  about  that!"  its  author 
interrupted.  "Thousands  are  reading  it. 
Those  who  are  too  stingy  to  buy  a  paper 
are  stealing  it  over  other  peoples'  shoulders." 

"But,  Senor,  you  could  not  write  this  story 
so  well  unless  you  knew  something — " 

"Knew  something!"  he  jerked  out  as  if 
she  had  struck  him.  "Of  course  I  know 
something.  Don't  I  look  intelligent?5' 

"But  in  your  story  you  say  so  many  things 
which  are  true,"  said  Juanita  Perez,  with  a 
little  shiver. 

"True?  Of  course  they  are  true."  His 
head  shot  forward  close  to  hers.  "But  how 
do  you  know  that  they  are  true?"  he  de- 
manded looking  at  her  meaningly  and  in- 
tently. 

She  recoiled  instinctively  from  his  gaze, 


258  THE  CONSPIRACY 

then,  after  looking  towards  the  door,  turned 
to  him  again  and  asked:  "Are  we  quite 
alone,  Senor?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said  impatiently.  "Come 
to  the  point." 

"Well,  I—" 

Again  his  head  shot  forward  as  he  inter- 
rupted her  with:  "Wait  a  minute  though." 
His  tone  was  now  that  of  an  inquisitor. 
"If  you  are  Morton's  relative,  why  haven't 
you  come  forward  to  claim  his  effects,  eh?" 

The  woman  hesitated  a  moment  and  then 
said  slowly:  "Because  I  was  arrested  for 
being  the  one  who — " 

"O — h,  I  see.  You  are  the  woman  who 
called  on  Morton  just  before  the  murder?" 

"Si,  Senor." 

"And  Ryan  arrested  you!  Ha!  Ha!"  he 
chuckled,  adding  with  a  sneer,  "The  fool!" 

"Yes,  it  was  an  outrage,"  protested  the 
lady  vehemently. 

"And  he  called  me  a  flat  tire,"  muttered 
Clavering  vindictively.  "But  how  did  you 
get  away  from  him?  Why  did  he  let  you 


A  RELATIVE  259 

go?"  he  continued  in  his  cross-examina- 
tion. 

"Because  two  cab  drivers  saw  me  leave 
the  hotel  twenty  minutes  before  the  murder." 

"Ha!  Ha!"  he  gloated.  "So  they  found 
those  cabbies  at  last,  did  they?  I  found 
them  that  very  afternoon."  He  paused  a 
moment  as  if  in  self -admiration,  then  went 
on :  "At  about  what  time  did  you  call  upon 
Morton?" 

Juanita  calculated  a  moment :  "At  about 
four  o'clock." 

"And  you  left  at  twenty  minutes  to  five?" 

"Si,  Senor." 

"While  you  were  there  did  you  see  this 
woman,  this  Mary  Hadfield,  the  stenogra- 
pher?" 

"No :  Mr.  Morton  had  told  her  not  to  come 
that  day.  So  I  didn't  see  her  then." 

"Then."  Clavering  caught  the  emphasis 
she  put  on  the  word.  "You  haven't  seen 
her  since  then,  have  you?"  he  demanded 
eagerly.  "No  one  saw  her  leave  the  hotel." 

"No  one  but  me — " 


260  THE  CONSPIRACY 

"You  saw  her,  you?"  Clavering  started  out 
of  his  chair.  "By  George,  we  are  getting  at 
the  missing  link  in  this  thing."  He  rubbed 
his  hands  together  excitedly.  "You  say  you 
saw  her  leave  the  hotel?  How?" 

"By  the  fire-escape,  from  Mr.  Morton's 
room." 

"The  fire-escape!"  The  World's  Great- 
est Authority  on  Crime  was  pacing  the  floor 
enthusiastically.  "By  the  fire-escape!  That 
was  it,  eh?  That  was  how  I  had  it  worked 
out  in  my  walk,  and  then  things  drove  it  out 
of  my  head.  I  was  going  to  end  this  chap- 
ter with  the  woman  running  down  the  fire- 
escape,  just  as  the  men  were  breaking  down 
the  door!" 

Back  and  forth  he  walked  in  his  excite- 
ment, his  face  glowing  with  inspiration,  en- 
tirely unconscious  for  the  moment  of  his 
visitor,  who  leaned  forward  watching  him  as 
though  he  had  suddenly  taken  leave  of  his 
senses. 

"Well,  well,"  he  demanded,  after  he  had 
walked  himself  into  some  semblance  of 


A  RELATIVE  261 

sanity.     "What  then?     Where  were  you?" 

"In  a  doorway  across  the  street,  waiting 
for  Mr.  Morton  to  come  out,"  said  Juanita. 

Clavering  drew  a  chair  close  beside  her. 
"Yes?  What  then?  What  happened?" 

"I  had  been  waiting  about  fifteen  minutes, 
when  I  saw  a  window  in  Morton's  apartment 
open  and  a  woman  come  out  and  go  down 
the  fire-escape  to  the  street." 

"Could  you  see  her  face?" 

"Yes,  when  she  came  under  the  light." 

"Dark  hair?  Grey  eyes?  About  so 
tall?"  Clavering  indicated  by  a  gesture. 

Surprised  at  the  accuracy  of  the  descrip- 
tion, Juanita  answered,  "Si,  Senor." 

Clavering  clapped  his  hands.  "That's 
the  woman!"  he  cried. 

Juanita  rose  from  her  chair  in  astonish- 
ment. "The  woman?  You  know  her?"  she 
exclaimed. 

"Know  her?"  The  criminologist  shook 
his  head.  "No,  only  in  my  imagination,"  he 
said,  his  eyes  gazing  so  fixedly  into  space 
that  Juanita  started  and  cast  a  quick  look 


262  THE  CONSPIRACY 

behind  her,  expecting  actually  to  see  some 
one  there. 

"How  was  she  dressed?"  demanded  Clav- 
ering,  for  even  his  fertile  brain  could  not 
compass  that  millinery  detail. 

"A  dark  blue  skirt  and  coat;  with  a  white 
shirt  waist  and  a  red  hat,"  she  said  promptly. 

"Uh-huh!"  went  Clavering,  making  a 
mental  note  of  the  description.  "Well,  then, 
when  she  got  to  the  street  where  did  she 
go?" 

"She  crossed  to  where  a  taxi  was  waiting 
right  in  front  of  me  and  jumped  into  it,  tell- 
ing the  chauffeur  to  go  quick  to  the  Cafe 
Rossamano." 

"Cafe  Rossamano!"  Clavering  exclaimed. 
"The  Cafe  that  Morton  was  calling  up  when 
he  was  stabbed!"  His  head  was  now 
stretched  forward  like  a  hound's  that  sniffs  a 
scent.  "Good!  Did  you  follow  her?" 

"Yes,  in  another  cab.  When  she  reached 
the  cafe  she  looked  about  for  a  minute. 
Then  a  man  grabbed  her  and  tried  to  kiss 
her — Another  man  ran  up  and  struck  him 


A  RELATIVE  263 

down — Then  some  friends  got  the  man  into 
a  cab  and  drove  off  with  him — She  ran  after 
the  cab  for  a  minute,  but  finally  gave  up  and 
came  back  to  the  restaurant." 

"Where  did  she  go  then?" 

"She  did  not  seem  to  know  where  to  go. 
She  walked  and  walked.  She  would  stop 
always  before  a  hotel  as  if  to  go  in  and  then 
turn  away.  I  followed  her  to  Forty-second 
Street  and  Broadway.  Then  I  think  that 
she  saw  me  and  knew  I  was  following  her, 
for  she  ran  quickly  into  a  subway  station 
and  jumped  on  a  train  that  was  just  starting. 
I  missed  the  train,  and  could  see  her  looking 
back  at  me  as  it  pulled  out.  So  I  lost  her." 

"Did  she  go  up  town  or  down  town?" 

"Down  town." 

"Uh-huh !     What  time  was  this  ?" 

"It  was  nearly  seven." 

"What  did  you  do  then?" 

"I  started  for  my  home.  The  newsboys 
were  calling  out  an  extra  about  a  murder  at 
the  Hotel  Beaumont.  I  bought  a  paper, 
and  then,"  here  the  lady  choked  with  real 


264  THE  CONSPIRACY 

emotion  and  pressed  her  black-bordered 
handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  ''and  then  I  learned 
of  Mr.  Morton's  death." 

"Did  you  think  then  that  the  stenographer 
had  killed  him?"  queried  Clavering,  heart- 
lessly breaking  in  upon  this  grief. 

"Si,  Senor,"  the  lady  answered  with  a 
sob;  "I  felt  sure  of  it." 

"Did  you  tell  the  police  about  her?" 

Here  the  relative  of  the  late  James  Mor- 
ton forgot  her  sorrow  for  a  moment,  and  with 
flashing  eyes  answered  excitedly:  "No!  I 
would  tell  the  police  nothing." 

"Why  not?"  Clavering  demanded  sharply, 
for  the  first  time  betraying  some  suspicion 
of  the  woman's  cleverly  acted  role. 

"We  did  not  want  them  to  know  anything 
about  this  case." 

"We?    Who  are 'We'?" 

Something  in  the  novelist's  continued 
cross-examination  made  her  answer  warily: 
"We?  Why,  the  relatives  of  Mr.  Morton." 

"Oh!"  said  Clavering,  and  raised  his  eye- 
brows to  take  a  side-long  glance  at  his  vis- 


A  RELATIVE  265 

itor.  She  was  clever,  and  she  thought  she 
was  fooling  him,  did  she!  But  it  was  his 
move  in  the  game  next  and  he  went  on: 
"Why  didn't  you  want  the  police  to  know? 
What  had  Morton  been  doing?" 

The  woman  leaned  toward  him  in  a  con- 
fiding way,  and  lowering  her  voice  said 
softly,  and  with  a  suggestion  of  embarrass- 
ment: "Well,  you  see,  Mr.  Morton  was  a 
married  man,  and  this  girl — " 

"The  stenographer,  you  mean?" 

"Yes.  She  was  his — his —  What  you 
call  it?"  She  paused  as  if  uncertain  of  the 
word.  "Ah,  yes,  his  mistress.  You  see  she 
killed  him  through  jealousy.  His  wife,  she 
knew  nothing  about  her,  and  we  are  anxious 
she  should  not  know.  It  would  kill  her,  for 
she  loved  her  husband  very  dearly." 

She  drew  a  long,  sobbing  breath  and  again 
had  recourse  to  the  handkerchief.  The 
black  symbol  of  woe  was  flourished  consider- 
ably as  she  finished  her  recital  of  the  scandal 
overshadowing  the  house  of  Morton. 

"Qh!     And  he  had  been  deceiving  his  wife 


266  THE  CONSPIRACY 

about  this  girl,  eh?"  said  Clavering,  with  an 
apparent  sympathetic  understanding  of  the 
situation,  though  at  the  same  time  an  in- 
credulous smile  twitched  the  corners  of  his 
mouth.  "You're  sure  that's  the  right  story, 
are  you?"  he  asked.  His  tone  implied  that 
it  was  a  good  story  but  had  failed  to  register. 

"Oh,  yes!  I'm  sure,"  the  woman  eagerly 
answered. 

"Well,"  said  Clavering,  rising  and  walk- 
ing leisurely  across  the  room,  "that  wasn't 
the  way  I  had  worked  it  out." 

"And  how  had  you  worked  it  out,  Senor?" 
the  woman  asked. 

The  crafty  old  man  took  a  position  where 
he  could  watch  his  visitor's  face  success- 
fully, and  said  musingly:  "Well,  you  see, 
I  was  going  to  have  Morton  a  member  of 
the  Scarlet  Band—" 

The  almost  imperceptible  start  she  gave 
did  not  escape  his  keen  eyes. 

"The  Scarlet  Band?"  she  stammered. 

He  had  known  she  was  playing  a  part,  but 
he  had  not  expected  his  first  shot  to  take  such 


A  RELATIVE  267 

good  effect.  "What  is  the  Scarlet  Band?" 
she  hastened  to  inquire. 

Clavering  looked  surprised.  "Never 
heard  of  the  Scarlet  Band?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head,  then  repeated  naively 
her  inquiry,  "What  is  it?" 

"Xever  heard  of  the  Scarlet  Band?"  re- 
peated Clavering  in  a  tone  of  shocked  dis- 
appointment. "Well,  I  am  surprised!  I 
thought  everybody  knew  about  that.  That's 
why  I  have  written  my  story  about  it." 

"But  what  is  it?"  she  persisted. 

"You  said  you  were  reading  my  story, 
didn't  you?" 

He  walked  slowly  towards  her,  gesticulat- 
ing with  his  long,  bony  fingers.  She  shifted 
uneasily  under  his  steady  gaze,  and  com- 
menced a  nervous  drumming  upon  the  table, 
as  he  said  ponderously,  "It's  a  notorious  band 
of  cunning,  conspiring  criminals — " 

The  woman  interrupted  him,  springing  to 
her  feet  in  an  outburst  of  well-feigned  indig- 
nation, exclaiming,  "Mr.  Morton  could  have 
had  nothing  to  do  with  anything  like  that." 


268  THE  CONSPIRACY 

"Of  course  he  couldn't,"  said  Clavering, 
with  an  appeasing  pat  on  her  shoulder,  "but 
he's  going  to  have  in  my  story."  Then 
changing  abruptly  to  an  uninterested  man- 
ner, he  announced  curtly:  "Have  to  ask 
you  to  go  now.  Haven't  done  any  work  to- 
day. Good-bye." 

He  seated  himself  at  his  desk  with  an  air 
of  finality,  and  began  scanning  the  pages  of 
the  manuscript  before  him. 

The  woman  protested.  "But  Mr.  Clav- 
ering, I  have  not  yet  told  you  why  I  called." 

"Well,  why  did  you  call?"  he  snapped  out. 

"To  tell  you  that  if  you  find  the  stenog- 
rapher, we — the  relatives — will  pay  you 
well." 

"What  makes  you  think  I  can  find  her?" 
he  asked  indifferently.  He  was  very  busy 
as  he  transferred  the  mental  notes  he  had 
made  during  the  interview  to  the  paper  be- 
fore him. 

"Because  you  have  hit  upon  so  many 
things  that  are  true  so  far.  And  then,  be- 
sides, I  have  read  that  you  have  told  the  po- 


A  RELATIVE  269 

lice  how  to  catch  hundreds  of  criminals  in 
New  York." 

Clavering  looked  up  with  an  air  of  grati- 
fication. "So  you've  heard  that,  have  you? 
Well,  it's  true,  and  they  call  me  'Old  Grape 
Nuts.'  Well,  perhaps  Old  Grape  Nuts  will 
show  them  a  thing  or  two  about  this  case 
yet."  he  chuckled,  as  he  underlined  the  notes 
before  him. 

The  woman  leaned  across  the  table  and 
smiled  persuasively.  "You  are  so  clever. 
Won't  you  help  us  find  this  Mary  Hadfield? 
We  will  pay  you  five  hundred  dollars  if  you 
will." 

"Oh,  you  will,  eh?  Want  that  girl  pretty 
bad,  don't  you?  What  are  you  going  to  do 
with  her  when  you  find  her?" 

"We  intend  to  take  her  out  of  the  coun- 
try." 

"Oh,  yes!  Put  her  away  where  no  one 
will  ever  see  her  again,"  he  grinned  ironi- 
cally. "Very  anxious  to  save  Mr.  Morton's 
name  from  scandal,  aren't  you?  Pretty 
risky  business,  this  putting  people  away." 


270  THE  CONSPIRACY 

"But  there  need  be  no  risk,"  urged  the 
woman,  fearful  lest  Clavering  decline  to  help 
her  after  all.  "You  can  depend  upon  our 
silence." 

Clavering  twirled  his  pencil  in  his  hand  as 
if  undecided.  "Well—  "  he  began. 

"Yes?"  she  encouraged  hopefully. 

"If  I  should  get  any  information,  where 
could  I  reach  you?" 

She  scribbled  rapidly  on  a  piece  of  paper 
and  handed  it  to  him.  "You  may  call  that 
telephone  number." 

"968  Gramercy,"  he  read.  "With  whom 
am  I  to  talk?" 

The  woman  deliberated  a  moment.  "Ask 
for  Enrico  Savelli,"  she  said. 

"Enrico  Savelli,"  repeated  Clavering, 
writing  the  name  on  the  same  slip  as  the  tele- 
phone number.  "Is  he  one  of  the  mourn- 
ers?" She  did  not  see  the  look  of  grim 
humour  twitching  at  the  corners  of  his 
mouth. 

"Yes,  he  is  one  of  us,"  she  answered. 


A  RELATIVE  271 

"All  right.  I'll  do  the  best  I  can.  Good- 
bye!" 

Juanita  smiled  radiantly  at  him  as  she 
rose  to  leave  the  room.  "I  am  very  glad  to 
have  met  so  wonderful  a  man  as  you,  Mr. 
Clavering,"  she  said.  "And  you  will  try  to 
find  the  girl,  won't  you?  Good-bye!"  she 
smiled  upon  him  sweetly  as  she  closed  the 
door  behind  her. 

Clavering  sat  listening  intently  till  he 
heard  the  hall  door  close  below.  Then  he 
snapped  his  fingers  contemptuously.  "Pah! 
Relatives  of  Morton  nothing!  Scarlet 
Banders!  That's  what  they  are!" 

He  began  a  drumming  on  the  table  and 
his  thoughts  travelled  back  over  the  inter- 
view. What  did  they  want  with  the  girl? 
Had  she  been  a  traitor?  He  dismissed 
the  scandal  story  at  once;  he  knew  the 
woman  lied.  Five  hundred  dollars'  reward ! 
He  would  give  twice  that  for  the  glory  of 
marching  into  headquarters  with  the  assas- 
sin of  James  Morton!  He  smiled  as  he 


272  THE  CONSPIRACY 

pictured  the  consternation  among  the  crest- 
fallen blue-coats  when  he  should  appear  and 
say:  "Well,  here's  the  woman!  I  told  you 
that  it  was  the  stenographer!" 

From  imaginary  triumphs  his  mind  came 
back  to  the  notes  before  him.  The  Spanish 
woman  had  given  a  good  description  of  the 
girl  and  her  movements  after  she  had  left 
the  Beaumont.  He  ought  to  find  her  now. 
With  his  customary  method  of  working  out 
situations  he  began  to  assemble  his  new 
material.  "Let  me  see,"  he  mused  aloud; 
"Taxi  to  Cafe  Rossamano!  Forty-Second 
Street  to  Subway  Station.  Down  town. 
Down  town,"  he  repeated.  "Yes,  she  would 
have  a  better  chance  of  eluding  pursuit 
there."  Again  he  read  his  notes.  "Medium 
height,  dark  complexion,  grey  eyes,  dark 
blue  skirt  and  coat — white  shirt  waist  and  a 
red  hat.  Red  hat!"  he  repeated.  Then 
something  registered  in  his  brain  with  a  click. 
"Where  have  I  seen  a  woman  with  a  red 
hat?"  He  never  took  much  notice  of  women 


A  RELATIVE  273 

in  his  preoccupied  walks;  why  should  a  red 
hat  be  filling  a  pigeon  hole  in  his  memory 
now,  he  wondered. 

"Jupiter!" 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  began  pacing 
the  floor  furiously.  He  saw  the  wearer  of 
the  red  hat  now !  'Twas  the  girl  he  had  en- 
gaged at  The  Refuge  for  a  stenographer! 
The  one  who  was  working  for  him  now! 
Yes,  she  had  worn  a  dark  blue  skirt  and  coat 
and  a  white  shirt  waist.  His  gaze  wandered 
to  the  table  where  she  had  been  working, 
and  narrowed  till  his  eyes  seemed  to  be  only 
points  of  light.  Why  had  she  wanted  to 
quit  work  so  abruptly?  Why  had  she 
nearly  collapsed  when  he  had  asked  her  to 
enact  the  stabbing?  He  sank  into  his  chair 
again  and  sat  there  rigidly. 

How  she  had  tricked  him!  And  he  had 
thought  it  was  his  vivid  writing  that  had 
moved  her!  "Am  I  an  old  fool?"  he  gasped, 
his  anger  at  himself  almost  choking  him. 
He  half  rose  as  if  to  go  and  summon  her, 


274  THE  CONSPIRACY 

then  hesitated.  "I  must  make  sure,"  he 
muttered. 

With  feverish  haste  he  searched  in  the  tele- 
phone directory  for  a  number. 

"6 — 4 — 2  Chambers,"  he  commanded. 
"Hurry,  you  fool!  Now  don't  give  me 
any  back  talk.— Hello?  Is  this  The  Ref- 
uge? Miss  Towne?  This  is  Winthrop 
Clavering  talking."  He  lowered  his  voice. 
"What  can  you  tell  me  about  that  ste- 
nographer whom  I  got  at  your  place  two 
weeks  ago?  Nothing?  Just  came  from 
where?  Chicago?  Did  she  complain  of 
being  ill,  to  you?  Huh?  Oh!  Only  ex- 
hausted and  very  much  agitated?  Thanks. 
That's  all  I  want  to  know.  Good-bye!" 

He  hung  up  the  receiver  and  brought  his 
hand  down  on  the  desk  with  a  blow.  It  was 
all  clear  now.  A  woman  answering  the 
description  of  the  one  seen  to  leave  the  Beau- 
mont by  the  fire-escape  had  gone  to  The 
Refuge  exhausted  and  agitated,  and  he,  he, 
Winthrop  Clavering  had  brought  her  here 


A  RELATIVE  275 

and  had  seen  her  every  day  and  not  sus- 
pected her.  His  eyes  glittered,  and  his 
thin  lips  twisted  in  a  cunning  smile  as  he 
said  aloud:  "Well,  my  dear!  We'll  see 
how  you  can  stand  a  little  more  dictation!" 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE   TRAP 

MARGARET  HOLT  sat  at  the  table,  and  with 
pencil  poised  surveyed  the  dingy  room. 
Only  two  hours  more  and  she  would  be  out 
of  it  forever,  thank  God!  She  looked  at 
Clavering  as  he  stood  with  arm  outstretched 
ready  to  begin  his  dictation,  and  caught  her 
breath  sharply.  Was  it  her  imagination  or 
was  there  a  stealthy  vigilance  in  the  baleful 
gleam  of  the  eyes  he  fixed  on  her?  Who 
could  his  caller  have  been? 

"Now  start  a  new  page.  Begin  Chapter 
nine,"  his  voice  interrupted  her. 

''Chapter  nine?  You  haven't  finished 
Chapter  eight,"  she  reminded  him,  darting  a 
quick  look  at  him,  wondering  what  was  caus- 
ing him  to  deviate  from  his  usual  order. 

"I  know,  we'll  go  back  to  that,"  he  ex- 
plained, taking  a  position  near  her  table 

276 


THE  TRAP  277 

where  he  could  get  a  better  view  of  her  face. 
"Er— "  a  moment  of  deliberation— "We'll 
head  this  chapter  The  Refuge." 

"The  Refuge?"  she  exclaimed  startled. 
Why  that  place,  she  wondered.  She  tried  to 
throw  a  tinge  of  amused  criticism  in  her  tone, 
as  she  repeated,  "The  Refuge." 

Her  confusion  had  not  escaped  Clavering. 

"There's  a  lot  of  atmosphere  in  that,"  he 
chuckled,  and  then  added,  with  a  fiendish 
grin:  "And  I'll  manage  to  get  a  thrill  in  it 
too.  All  ready?" 

"Yes." 

The  answer  was  so  faint  as  to  be  barely 
audible.  The  girl  crouched  over  her  work 
as  if  some  enemy  were  to  spring  upon  her 
at  any  moment. 

Without  taking  his  eyes  from  her  face, 
Clavering  went  on  with  relentless  precision: 
'  'Reaching  the  fire-escape,  down  which  she 
fled  from  the  scene  of  her  crime,  the  assassin 
leaped  to  the  pavement.' '  He  paused  to 
note  Margaret's  trembling  hand,  which  re- 
laxed its  hold  upon  her  pencil,  and  the  shud- 


278  THE  CONSPIRACY 

0 

der  that  shook  her  body.  "  'Jumping  into  a 
taxi  she  drove  at  break-neck  speed  to  the 
Cafe  Rossamano  .  .  .' '  The  girl's  eyes 
widened  and  she  pressed  her  hand  hard 
against  her  heart.  The  man  saw  her  and 
hurried  on. 

'To  get  with  all  haste  her  information  to 
her  waiting  friend;  but  alas,  he  was  not 
there.' '  The  sinister  old  face  relaxed  in  a 
grin.  She  was  gripping  the  table  hard  now. 
'  'For  a  moment  she  paused,  uncertain  of 
her  next  move.  Where  could  she  go?  The 
police  would  soon  be  on  her  track.' '  His 
dictation  came  faster  now  as  he  saw  his  vic- 
tim swaying  under  its  accusing  weight. 
"  'Like  a  frightened  animal  she  fled  for 
hours.  Up  one  street  and  down  another. 
Into  the  Subway  and  out  again  at  the  next 
stop.' '  Here  he  stopped  and  watched  the 
girl.  She  was  trying  to  recover  her  control, 
she  was  trying  to  force  her  pencil  to  respond. 
But  he  had  her!  He  had  her.  It  needed 
only  one  last  thrust,  "  'Already  the  news- 
boys were  crying  out  "Extra!  All  about 


THE  TRAP  279 

the  murder  at  the  Hotel  Beaumont!"  She 
turned  into  a  side  street  and  suddenly,  into 
her  big  grey  eyes,  came  the  light  of  hope. 
There  across  the  street  an  electric  sign 
flashed  its  welcome :  "The  Refuge."  '  " 

Clavering  crouched  like  an  animal  about 
to  spring  upon  its  prey  as  he  saw  the  girl's 
head  fall  forward  on  the  table.  She  was 
at  his  mercy  now!  With  a  brave  effort  she 
roused  herself. 

"No,  no,  I  can't  go  on,"  she  cried,  as  she 
swept  the  papers  before  her  to  the  floor. 
"Can't  you  see  that  I  am  tired  and  sick? 
This  confinement  is  killing  me.  I  can't  go 
on!" 

She  darted  for  the  door,  but  Clavering, 
with  the  agility  of  a  cat,  intercepted  her  and 
turned  the  key  quietly  in  the  lock. 

"No  you  don't.  You  can't  leave  here 
now!" 

She  stood  motionless,  her  face  very  white. 
"Can't  leave  here?  I  am  not  your  prisoner, 
Mr.  Clavering!" 

"Yes,  you  are  my  prisoner,"  he  said. 


280  THE  CONSPIRACY 

Margaret  recoiled  and  he  slowly  advanced 
towards  her.  "Jupiter,  but  you're  clever!" 
he  cried.  "For  two  weeks  you've  fooled  me, 
me,  the  world's  greatest  authority  on  crime, 
and  all  the  time  I  thought  it  was  my  story 
that  was  moving  you." 

"It  was,  it  was.  What  else  could  it  have 
been?"  the  challenging  grey  eyes  answered 
back. 

.  The  long  arm  of  the  novelist  darted  to- 
wards her  with  its  pointing  finger:  "It  was 
the  guilty  conscience  of  an  assassin  that  was 
moving  you,"  he  hissed. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  the  girl  demanded, 
making  a  last  desperate  stand  at  denial. 

Slowly,  relentlessly,  while  he  unctuously 
rubbed  his  hands,  Clavering  hurled  his  ac- 
cusation at  her:  "You  are  the  woman  who 
murdered  James  Morton,  and  I'm  going  to 
give  you  up!"  He  strode  to  the  telephone 
and  she  saw  him  take  up  the  directory. 

"My  God!"  she  thought.  "He  is  going 
to  give  me  up  to  the  police.  It  will  mean 
Victor's  death!  He  shall  not  do  it!  He 


"YOU  ARE  THE  WOMAN  WHO  MURDERED  JAMES   MORTON,  AND  I'M 
GOING   TO   GIVE   YOU    UP !" 


THE  TRAP  281 

shall  not!"  The  lines  of  her  mouth  tight- 
ened and  a  determined  gleam  came  to  her 
eyes.  "No,  you  are  not  going  to  give  me 
up!"  she  cried,  and  sprang  to  the  table  and 
placed  her  hand  on  the  telephone. 

"Who  will  stop  me?"  he  snarled. 

"I  will!" 

"You!  Ha!  3100  Spring!"  He  had 
found  the  number. 

"It  is  true  I  did  it !  But,"  she  added  with 
subtle  emphasis,  "you  are  not  going  to  give 
me  up  until  you  know  why  I  did  it.  That's 
not  in  your  story,  you  know." 

"You  confess?" 

"Yes!  I  am  going  to  tell  you  everything 
and  you  are  going  to  listen!" 

He  felt  himself  falling  under  the  spell  of 
her  superb  determination.  With  a  snort  he 
tried  to  shake  it  off  and  reached  for  the  in- 
strument once  more.  "I  tell  you  I'm  going 
to  give  you  up !"  he  cried. 

But  Margaret  snatched  the  thing  out  of 
his  reach.  If  she  could  only  hold  him,  make 
him  listen :  "No  you  are  not,  I  say!" 


282  THE  CONSPIRACY 

He  made  a  movement  as  if  to  spring  upon 
her  and  wrest  the  telephone  from  her  grasp ; 
but  again  he  felt  the  magnetism  of  her  defi- 
ance. This  was  no  ordinary  criminal,  this 
slender  girl  who  stood  there  with  flashing 
eyes  and  white  face.  Why  had  she  killed 
James  Morton?  What  had  been  her  mo- 
tive? Ah,  that  was  where  his  story  had 
been  weak !  He  had  never  been  sure  of  the 
motive.  He  would  get  it  from  her,  and 
then,  with  a  murmur,  of  whose  significance 
he  did  not  guess,  he  nodded  to  her,  "Sit 
down!" 

As  if  the  tension  that  had  buoyed  her  up 
had  snapped  at  last,  she  sank  weakly  into  a 
chair,  and  after  one  of  those  minutes  of 
silence  that  seem  eternities,  Clavering  drew 
his  chair  close  to  hers,  peering  into  her  eyes 
and  saying  sharply:  "Now  tell  me  the 
whole  story." 

Again  Margaret  told  through  the  events 
that  led  up  to  her  employment  by  Morton. 
For  all  the  evidence  he  gave  of  sympathy 
she  might  have  been  pouring  her  tale  into 


THE  TRAP  283 

the  ear  of  a  granite  sphinx.  But  once  he 
admonished  her  sharply,  "Not  so  fast!" 
And  when  she  came  to  her  brother's  abduc- 
tion at  the  Rossamano,  and  her  fear  of  its 
consequences  to  him,  the  novelist  rubbed  his 
hands  in  satisfaction.  "So  they  got  your 
brother,  did  they?"  he  gloated.  "He 
wouldn't  take  my  advice." 

Margaret's  heart  sank.  With  a  man's 
life  at  stake,  would  Clavering  prove  vin- 
dictive? And  he,  why  should  he  not  give 
up  this  girl,  he  thought.  She  had  con- 
fessed that  she  had  committed  the  murder. 
He  had  found  out  her  motive ;  that  was  what 
he  needed  for  his  story.  Of  course  there 
were  extenuating  circumstances;  still  she 
had  done  it.  If  her  brother  had  fallen 
into  the  hands  of  the  Scarlet  Band  it  was 
his  own  fault.  He  had  been  warned.  If 
he  knew  so  much  more  than  anybody  else, 
let  him  get  himself  out  of  their  clutches. 
If  he  let  the  girl  go,  what  then?  She  was 
bound  to  be  caught  sooner  or  later,  and  then 
he  would  be  robbed  of  the  glory  and  the  sat- 


284  THE  CONSPIRACY 

isfaction  of  confronting  Ryan  with  her. 
"You  couldn't  catch  your  own  feet!"  The 
captain's  taunting  words  came  back  to  him. 
Had  he  not  boasted  that  he  would  walk 
into  headquarters  with  that  stenographer? 
"And  by  Jupiter  I  will!"  he  broke  out. 

He  crossed  to  the  telephone.  Margaret, 
alert  for  the  reopening  of  hostilities,  caught 
his  arm.  "What  are  you  going  to  do?"  she 
cried. 

"I've  caught  you  and  I'm  going  to  give 
you  up!" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Clavering,  think,  think!"  She 
dropped  on  her  knees  beside  his  chair.  "It 
is  not  for  myself,"  she  pleaded.  "Think  of 
my  brother  in  the  clutch  of  those  men! 
You  have  in  your  hands  the  power  to  save 
him!  Think  of  the  good  that  he  has  done! 
Think  of  all  that  he  and  I  can  do  in  this  life, 
if  you  spare  us!  His  life  means  so  much 
to  every  one;  to  the  city;  to  the  coun- 
try!" she  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and 
sobbed. 

But  Clavering  seemed  deaf  to  her  en- 


THE  TRAP  285 

treaty.  "No,"  he  snarled,  "I'm  going  to 
give  Ryan  the  laugh." 

He  reached  for  the  telephone  and  she 
raised  her  head.  In  a  flash  she  saw  the 
name  Savelli  on  the  paper  on  his  desk. 
"Savelli!  Good  God!" 

"Spring — "  Clavering  began. 

Frantically  she  placed  her  hand  over  the 
transmitter — "Mr.  Clavering,  listen!  What 
good  is  it  going  to  do  you  to  give  me  up? 
Why  not  capture  all  those  terrible  men? 
You  know  where  they  are,  you  have  the  tele- 
phone number  of  their  leader,  Enrico  Sav- 
elli, before  you  now!"  Craftily  she  pic- 
tured the  enterprise.  "Why  not  capture 
them  all?  Think  what  a  marvellous  thing 
it  would  be?  How  it  would  enhance  your 
reputation  as  a  writer!  What  a  wonderful 
climax  it  would  make  to  your  story,  to  save 
the  Assistant  District  Attorney  and  capture 
the  entire  Scarlet  Band!"  She  incited  him, 
flattered  him,  with  all  the  skill  a  terrified, 
desperate  woman  could  command. 

His  face  grew  rigid,  his  lips  parted  as  if 


286  THE  CONSPIRACY 

he  gasped  for  breath.  Then  she  saw  his 
eyes  begin  to  snap  again  and  his  head  pro- 
trude. Had  she  touched  the  magic  key  that 
should  loose  the  genii  of  his  imagination? 
Had  she? 

He  drew  a  long  breath.  "You're  right!" 
he  muttered.  "If  I  rescue  your  brother  I 
may  catch  the  whole  gang!" 

"Don't  say  'may,'  say  will!  Of  course 
you  will,"  she  urged. 

"What  would  Ryan  say  then,  eh?"  he 
gloated.  "Why,  the  entire  police  force 
would  die  of  apoplexy!" 

"Yes,  or  of  chagrin!"  she  agreed. 

"And  as  you  say,  what  a  finish  for  my 
story!"  he  ejaculated,  throwing  up  his  arms. 
"The  description  of  the  rescue  would  make 
a  great  chapter,  wouldn't  it?"  There  was 
something  almost  pathetic  in  the  way  the 
lonely  old  genius  began  to  turn  to  the  girl 
beside  him  for  sympathy.  She  felt  a  hypo- 
crite, but  she  must  go  on. 

"Wonderful,  wonderful!  Think  of  the 
thrills  you'd  cause,"  she  elaborated. 


THE  TRAP  287 

"But,"  he  shook  his  head,  "there's  a  chap- 
ter before  that.  When  I  had  you  on  the 
rack !  Ha !  ha !  I  did  have  you  on  the  rack, 
didn't  I?  That's  a  good  heading:  'The 
Rack!' '  He  caught  up  a  pen  and  made  a 
memorandum:  "Chapter  ten — The  Rack. 
Chapter  Eleven— The  Rescue." 

"Mr.  Clavering,  you  will  save  my  brother, 
won't  you?"  pleaded  Margaret. 

"We'll  see,  we'll  see,"  he  cried. 

He  came  to  a  sudden  halt  again  at  the 
sound  of  the  doorbell.  "Now  who's  that?" 
he  asked  petulantly. 

"Oh,  perhaps  it's  Jack! — I  mean  Mr. 
Howell,"  corrected  Margaret.  The  sur- 
prised look  on  Clavering's  face  was  very 
genuine. 

"Jack!  Hm!  I  knew  you  had  a  feller!" 
he  said,  adding,  as  he  looked  over  his  spec- 
tacles at  her  and  saw  the  flush  crimson- 
ing her  face:  "Pretty  fond  of  him,  aren't 

you?" 

"How  can  I  help  it?"  she  demanded  pas- 
sionately. "He's  been  so  good  to  me." 


288  THE  CONSPIRACY 

"Huh !"  grumbled  Clavering.  "He  called 
me  Old  Grape  Nuts." 

"Oh,  do  you  suppose  he  can  possibly  have 
some  word  from  Victor?"  she  interrupted 
anxiously. 

There  came  a  sound  of  hurrying  steps  on 
the  stairs  and  Howell  burst  into  the  room. 
"Margaret,  Margaret,"  he  called  in  a  hoarse 
whisper  that  yet  was  almost  as  penetrating 
as  a  shout:  "I've  got  it!" 

In  the  excitement  of  his  entrance  he  had 
not  seen  Clavering,  but  as  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  his  scowling  face  and  feared  lest 
he  had  betrayed  her  secret,  the  change  in  his 
own  was  ludicrous. 

Margaret  saw  his  consternation  and  came 
to  the  rescue.  "You  may  go  on,  Jack. 
Mr.  Clavering  knows  everything  now.  He 
found  me  out,  as  I  told  you  he  would.  I 
knew  that  I  could  not  deceive  him." 

"Good  Lord!  Is  the  game  up,  then?" 
asked  Jack. 

"But  he  is  going  to  help  us!"  Margaret 
exclaimed  joyously. 


THE  TRAP  289 

"I  haven't  said  that  I  would,"  growled 
the  unfeeling  novelist. 

"Help  us!"  Howell  was  puzzled.  How 
could  the  old  sleuth  who  had  sworn  to  arrest 
the  murderer  of  James  Morton  help  them, 
he  wondered. 

"Yes,"  Margaret  continued,  as  though 
the  author  had  not  spoken.  "Mr.  Claver- 
ing  and  I  have  talked  it  all  over.  He  sees 
a  way  to  rescue  Victor  and  capture  that 
whole  gang."  She  gave  the  bewildered 
Jack  one  long,  expressive  look.  "He  is 
going  to  have  all  that  material  for  his  story ; 
don't  you  see  what  a  wonderful  opportunity 
it  is  for  him?" 

Thoroughly  awakened  to  the  situation 
now,  Howell  proceeded  to  co-operate  too  and 
do  his  share.  "Why,  Mr.  Clavering,"  he 
exclaimed,  "if  you  can  save  Victor  Holt  and 
walk  into  headquarters  with  that  whole 
bunch  of  ginks  in  the  bag,  your  reputation 
as  a  detective  will  be  made!  And  think  of 
the  advertising  there  is  in  it!  Look  at  the 
headlines  in  the  paper!"  Here  the  news- 


290  THE  CONSPIRACY 

paper  man  was  in  his  element.  "SCAR- 
LET BAND  GETS  THE  HOOK! 
FAMOUS  AUTHOR  PUTS  ONE 
OVER  ON  THE  BLUE-COATS.  I'll 

write  you  up  myself." 

Clavering's  narrow  chest  began  to  expand 
as  Howell  dipped  his  blarney  brush  into 
colours  more  and  more  dazzling.  "WIN- 
THROP  CLAVERING  CORRALS 
NEW  YORK'S  NOTORIOUS  BAND 
OF  CRIMINALS.  And  then  your  pic- 
ture and  Margaret's  and  Holt's — And  then 
— Carnegie  with  the  medal!"  He  placed 
his  hand  on  the  lapel  of  Clavering's  coat  as 
if  decorating  him,  grandiloquently.  "And 
think  what  a  boost  it  will  give  your  novels. 
Why,  they  can't  be  printed  fast  enough." 

For  a  moment  Clavering  had  the  vision  of 
the  dream  of  a  life-time  come  true.  He  saw 
Winthrop  Clavering,  The  World's  Greatest 
Detective,  inscribed  in  the  Hall  of  Fame, 
saw  all  his  failures,  all  his  disappointments 
blotted  out  by  the  victorious  hand  of  success. 
Then  he  shook  himself.  "Huh !"  he  grunted ; 


THE  TRAP  291 

"changing  your  tune  about  'Old  Grape 
Nuts,'  eh?" 

Jack  hastened  to  absolve  himself.  "Now 
Mr.  Clavering,  you  know  I  didn't  mean — " 

"Oh,  never  mind  that!"  snapped  the  au- 
thor. "You  said  something  about  getting  a 
message  from  Holt.  What  have  you  found 
out?" 

"I  went  to  the  house  on  Fourth  Street, 
Margaret,  you  know,"  said  Jack,  "to  look  for 
the  cord  Holt  was  to  lower  from  the  window. 
I  knew  that  I  was  taking  big  chances,  but  I 
went  right  after  it." 

"It  was  there?"  asked  Margaret,  quivering 
with  excitement. 

"I  kept  in  close  to  the  house,  till  something 
caught  on  the  rim  of  my  hat.  I  put  my  hand 
up  and  felt  a  piece  of  tape.  To  make  sure 
I  gave  it  a  yank.  In  a  second  I  felt  it 
tighten  in  my  hand,  and  I  knew  that  I  had 
hold  of  a  live  wire.  Then  I  fastened  our 
message  to  it  and  gave  another  jerk  and  up 
she  went." 

"And  he  knows  now  that  we  are  trying  to 


292  THE  CONSPIRACY 

rescue  him!"  exclaimed  the  girl  in  a  perfect 
transport  of  joy  and  relief  at  last. 

"Huh!  Huh!"  said  Clavering.  "What 
did  you  do  then?" 

"Well,  I  knew  it  wouldn't  do  to  stick 
around  that  house  too  long,"  continued  Jack, 
"so  I  hustled  to  Mr.  Wilson's,  that's  her 
Uncle  Mark,  you  know,  to  his  room  across 
the  street  and  watched  for  the  signal  we  had 
agreed  upon  together.  I  had  not  waited 
long  before  I  saw  the  flicker  of  a  lighted 
match.  I  tell  you  I  almost  jumped  from 
the  window  in  my  rush  to  get  to  that  cord." 

"He  got  an  answer  to  you,  did  he?"  broke 
in  Clavering,  now  following  the  game  with 
the  keenest  concentration. 

"Yes,"  said  Howell,  and  produced  a  slip 
of  paper  from  his  hat  lining.  It  read :  "Am 
guarded  by  four  people.  Enrico  Savelli — " 

Clavering  reached  for  the  address  his  late 
visitor  had  given  him.  "Huh!  Good!  Go 
on!"  he  said. 

"Juanita  Perez  and  a  Jew,  Weinberg,  and 
another  man.  If  you  can  get  three  of  them 


THE  TRAP  293 

away,  I  can  manage  the  fourth  and  escape." 

"He  says  that,  does  he?"  said  Clavering. 
Then,  after  a  moment's  pause,  he  asked, 
"Who  is  the  woman?  This  Juanita?" 

"Juanita  Perez?  I  know  her.  She's  one 
of  the  gang,"  said  Margaret. 

"That  must  be  the  woman  who  followed 
you  from  the  Beaumont,  the  Spanish  woman 
who  called  here  to-night,"  said  Clavering. 
He  favoured  the  girl  with  a  look  of  grim 
humour.  "Hence  some  of  my  marvellous  de- 
ductions," he  added.  Then  he  sought  his 
path  on  the  red  carpet  again,  his  treadmill 
of  inspiration,  and  paced  back  and  forth,  his 
head  bent  forward. 

Margaret,  with  a  gesture,  warned  Howell 
not  to  disturb  his  meditations.  She  knew 
they  would  lead  him  to  some  vital  point. 

"If  we  could  get  three  of  them  away  he 
might  have  a  chance,"  the  novelist  muttered. 
"That  ought  to  be  easy!  That  ought  to  be 
easy!"  He  stopped  abruptly,  and  Mar- 
garet knew  by  the  flashing  of  his  eyes  that 
he  had  formed  a  plan. 


294  THE  CONSPIRACY 

"Do  you  know  any  of  the  detectives  who 
have  been  working  for  Holt?"  he  demanded 
with  a  suddenness  that  made  Howell  jump. 

"Sure.  I  know  Billy  Flynn,  Holt's  most 
trusted  assistant,"  said  Jack. 

"How  well  do  you  know  him?"  asked 
Clavering. 

"I  lunch  with  him  about  once  a  week," 
replied  the  reporter,  wondering  what  was 
coming. 

"Know  his  telephone  number?" 

"Sure  I  do!"  said  Jack. 

"Well,  sit  down  there,"  Clavering  com- 
manded. "How  far  from  here  is  the  house 
where  they've  got  Holt?" 

"Five  minutes  at  the  outside,"  was  How- 
ell's  calculation. 

"All  right!  All  right,  then.  Call  up 
Flynn." 

"What's  the  idea?"  demanded  Jack. 
"Put  me  on." 

"Don't  ask  questions!  Call  him  up,  will 
you?"  persisted  the  criminologist. 

Howell   went   to   the    telephone:    "3555 


THE  TRAP  295 

Spring —  But  what  am  I  to  say  when  I 
get  him?"  he  demanded. 

"Can't  say  anything  till  you  do  get  him, 
can  you?"  vouchsafed  the  crafty  Clavering. 

"Hello!  Three  -  five  -  five  -  five  Spring? 
Billy  Flynn  there?  It's  Jack  Howell,  of 
the  Evening  Telescope.  .  .  .  All  right !" 

"Is  he  there?"  asked  Margaret  eagerly. 

"Yes,  they've  just  gone  to  get  him." 

"Good!"  said  Clavering.  "Now  ask  him 
how  soon  he  can  get  four  of  his  best  men  up 
here  to  my  house,"  he  directed  further. 

Howell  nodded  his  understanding. 
"Here  he  is !  Hello,  that  you,  Billy?  This 
is  Jack  Howell.  Listen!  I  think  I've  got 
a  big  tip  about  Holt.  Wait!  Don't  go 
crazy  yet.  It  looks  like  a  haul  for  some  of 
that  Scarlet  Band  bunch.  I  am  at  Win- 
throp  Clavering's,  the  author's,  263  Wav- 
erly  Place.  How  long  would  it  take  you 
to  get  four  of  your  best  men  up  here?  Hold 
the  wire."  Howell  turned  to  Clavering, 
who  stood  at  his  elbow  with  his  big  silver 
time-piece  in  his  hand. 


296  THE  CONSPIRACY 

"He  says  he  can  get  them  here  in  fifteen 
minutes." 

"He  can,  eh?"  reflected  Clavering  for  a 
moment.  "That's  too  soon.  Tell  him 
to  get  them  here  in  just  twenty-five  minutes 
from  now.  Twenty-five  minutes.  No 
sooner." 

"Hello!  Can  you  work  it  to  get  here  in 
just  twenty-five  minutes  from  now?  .  .  . 
Just  a  minute —  He  says  yes." 

"All  right,"  said  the  author,  and  snapped 
his  watch  cover  sharply.  "Let  me  talk  to 
him  a  moment.  Hello!"  he  called,  very 
suavely.  "Good  evening!  Listen!  It  is 
just  half -past  eight  now.  Can  you  get  your 
men  here  at  exactly  five  minutes  to  nine? 
All  right.  You  will  find  the  front  door  un- 
locked. Post  four  men  in  the  hall  and 
watch  the  front  of  the  house.  When  you 
are  ready,  throw  some  pebbles  against  the 
window  of  the  second  floor  front.  Pebbles," 
he  reiterated,  "not  rocks.  When  you  see 
the  lights  go  out  you  rush  the  front  room. 
Understand?  AJ1  right!  Now  don't  make 


THE  TRAP  297 

any  blunders.  Good-bye!"  Then  turning 
to  Howell  he  directed,  "You  go  to  the  house 
where  they've  got  Holt." 

"Surely,"  Jack  acquiesced.  Old  Claver- 
ing's  daring  plan  was  beginning  to  unfold 
itself  to  him  reassuringly. 

"You  watch  that  house.  If  you  see  two 
men  and  a  woman  come  out  of  it,  you  get 
word  to  Holt.  See?" 

"I'm  on  the  job!"  said  Howell.  He 
dashed  off  eagerly  to  execute  his  part  in  the 
game.  Again  Clavering  consulted  his 
watch  and  moved  to  the  telephone. 

"Oh,"  broke  in  Margaret,  "how  can  I  ever 
thank—" 

"Sh!  Keep  quiet!"  the  old  man  com- 
manded. "968  Gramercy!"  he  called  into 
the  receiver.  Margaret  held  her  breath. 

"Hello!  968  Gramercy?  This  is  Win- 
throp  Clavering.  To  whom  am  I  speaking? 
Oh,  you  are  the  young  woman  who  came  to 
see  me  this  afternoon?  Well,  I  want  to  talk 
with  Mr.  Savelli.  None  of  your  business!" 
he  snapped;  "I  want  to  talk  with  Savelli, 


298  THE  CONSPIRACY 

and  hurry  up."  He  looked  at  his  watch 
carefully.  "Hello?  Is  this  Savelli?  This 
is  Winthrop  Clavering  talking.  Now  you 
listen  to  me.  If  you  can  get  here  to  my 
house  in  ten  minutes  I'll  hand  that  stenogra- 
pher over  to  you." 

The  girl  drew  a  gasping  breath  but  the 
pressure  of  Clavering's  hand  on  her  own  re- 
assured her. 

"What?  How  could  I  hand  her  over  to 
you  if  I  hadn't  found  her?  Here,  and  bring 
that  young  woman  who  called  on  me  this 
afternoon,  to  identify  her.  And  I  want  you 
to  bring  another  man.  You  have  got  to 
overpower  her  and  take  her  away  by  force. 
I  don't  want  any  noise  about  it.  She's  a 
very  dangerous  woman."  He  shot  a  comi- 
cal glance  at  the  slender  girl  across  the  table. 
"What!  You  haven't  got  another  man 
there?  Oh,  I'm  sorry!  I  shall  have  to  turn 
her  over  to  the  police  then.  Good-bye,"  he 
ended,  but  without  taking  his  ear  from  the 
transmitter.  Then  followed  an  ironical 


THE  TRAP  299 

grin — "What?  Oh,  I  thought  you  could. 
Hurry  up !  You've  only  got  eight  minutes 
now.  I  can't  hold  her  here  all  night,  can  I? 
All  right.  Good-bye!" 

"They  are  coming  here?"  cried  Margaret, 
terrified;  but  Clavering  did  not  stop  to 
answer  her.  He  went  to  the  hall  door  in- 
stead and  called:  "Martha!  Martha,  come 
up  here  a  minute!" 

"Now  it's  all  right.  We'll  get  on,"  he 
said  to  Margaret.  "We'll  get  on!"  Then 
to  Martha,  "Now  you  listen  to  me." 

"Yes,  sah!     I'se  a-listening." 

"In  a  few  minutes  I  am  expecting  some 
callers.  Two  men  and  a  woman." 

"My  sakes!"  exclaimed  Martha.  "What 
a  lot  of  callers  yo's  havin'  t'  day." 

"Mind  your  own  business,"  snapped  Clav- 
ering, "and  try  to  get  carefully  into  that 
thick  skull  of  yours  what  I  am  telling  you. 
Now  when  these  persons  come,  you  show 
them  right  up  here,  and  then  you  go  down 
stairs  and  unlock  the  front  door.  Do  you 


300  THE  CONSPIRACY 

see?"  He  shook  his  fist  in  the  old  house- 
keeper's face  and  added,  "Don't  you  forget 
anything,  now!" 

"No,  Martha,"  urged  Margaret.  "Don't 
forget ;  it  means  a  lot  to  me." 

"No,  I  won't  fergit,  Honey,  don't  yo's 
worry,"  Martha  promised  as  she  went  out. 

Clavering  rubbed  his  hands  gleefully.  "I 
think  I've  got  them.  I  think  I've  got  them! 
If  those  detectives  don't  fool  me !  It  would 
be  pretty  bad  if  they  got  here  too  soon — 
before  those  devils." 

"Oh,  you  can  depend  upon  Mr.  Flynn," 
Margaret  assured  him. 

"Well,  I  hope  so!"  he  growled;  then  ex- 
citedly he  added:  "Oh,  if  it  all  comes  out 
as  I  have  planned,  it'll  be  the  greatest  story 
I've  ever  written.  Sherlock  Holmes! 
Pah!  The  creation  of  a  disordered  brain!" 

"But,  Mr.  Clavering,"  broke  in  Mar- 
garet anxiously.  "What  shall  I  do  when 
the  people  come?" 

"You  had  better  go  into  your  room  and 
stay  there,  no  matter  what  happens." 


THE  TRAP  301 

"And  you  will  be  careful,  won't  you?" 
pleaded  Margaret,  who  knew  too  well  how 
desperate  were  the  men  he  was  luring  to  the 
house. 

He  patted  her  hand  gently.  "I'll  take 
care  of  myself.  They  won't  catch  the  old 
fox  napping.  And  when  we  have  them, 
we'll  start  right  in  and  finish  that  story,  eh?" 

He  began  to  pace  the  floor.  In  his  hand 
he  held  his  watch,  and  in  his  eyes  was  the  in- 
tent, feverish  look  of  the  gambler  who 
watches  for  a  card  to  fall  upon  the  table. 
Margaret  withdrew  reluctantly  to  her  room. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE   PLOT 

"Two  gentlemen  and  a  lady  to  see  you,  sah!" 
announced  Martha,  just  ten  minutes  after 
Clavering's  telephone  message  to  Enrico 
Savelli. 

"Gosh!"  he  ejaculated.  How  did  they 
get  here  so  soon  ?  He  wondered  if  he  should 
be  able  to  delay  the  proceedings  until  the 
detectives  were  safely  arrived?  In  some 
way,  somehow,  he  mu^t,  or  his  plan  would 
end  in  miserable  failure.  "Well,  show  them 
up  here,"  he  said  presently. 

"Yes,  sah,"  answered  Martha. 

As  the  old  negress  shuffled  out  Clavering 
pushed  up  the  window  and  looked  anxiously 
up  and  down  the  street.  There  was  no  sign 
of  any  one  outside. 

"That's  right,"  he  muttered.  "I  told 
them  not  to  come  for  twenty-five  minutes." 

302 


THE  PLOT  303 

Then  he  closed  the  window  suddenly  as  he 
heard  Martha  returning  in  the  hall,  accom- 
panied by  other  footsteps  and  a  silken  rustle 
that  he  connected  with  the  draperies  of  the 
relative  of  the  late  James  Morton.  He 
climbed  the  rickety  ladder  to  his  book- 
shelves, and  he  made  a  show  of  hunting  for 
some  volume  there. 

"Right  this  way,  please,"  said  Martha, 
opening  the  door  of  the  study. 

Enrico  Savelli,  Juanita  Perez  and  a 
fidgety  little  man  with  a  huge  nose  whom 
there  was  no  difficulty  in  identifying  as 
Weinberg,  entered  the  room  quietly. 
Juanita  had  on  the  same  elaborate  mourning 
that  she  had  worn  upon  her  earlier  visit. 
Savelli  also  was  dressed  in  quiet  colors,  but 
betrayed  the  carefully  anointed  hair  and 
twisted  moustaches  of  a  barber. 

The  novelist  peered  down  upon  the  group 
from  the  top  round  of  his  ladder  a  moment. 
"Oh,  yes ;  the  relatives  of  the  late  Mr.  Mor- 
ton," he  exclaimed.  "Sit  down.  I'll  be 
with  you  in  a  minute."  He  proceeded  in  a 


304          THE  CONSPIRACY 

very  leisurely  way  to  take  a  book  from  the 
shelf  and  began  to  dust  it,  muttering  a  while, 
but  making  no  further  move. 

Weinberg  began  to  snap  his  fingers  im- 
patiently, while  Savelli  scowled  up  at  the 
unperturbed  figure  on  the  ladder;  neither 
enjoyed  the  humour  of  the  situation — that 
was  clear. 

"Just  looking  for  a  book,"  explained  Clav- 
ering,  replacing  the  one  he  held  and  reach- 
ing for  another.  "Ah!  here  it  is!"  He 
opened  it,  looked  it  through  from  cover  to 
cover,  and  then  descended. 

"Johnson's  Anatomy.  That's  it!  Have 
to  know  everything  nowadays  to  be  an  au- 
thor," he  explained.  "Must  understand 
what  you  are  writing  about.  If  one  of  your 
characters  has  liver  complaint,  you've  got  to 
know  where  the  liver  is ;  the  colour  of  it  and 
its  size,  you  see." 

A  grunt  of  impatience  escaped  from  Sa- 
velli. Weinberg  got  up  and  sat  down 
again. 

"Excuse  me,  Mr.  Clavering,"  interposed 


THE  PLOT  805 

Juanita  Perez  at  last,  as  she  saw  that  Clav- 
ering  was  about  to  deliver  an  exhaustless 
lecture  on  his  favourite  theme.  "We  have 
only  a  little  time,  you  know.  This  is  Mr. 
Savelli,  Mr.  Clavering." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Snivelli?"  Clavering  looked  over 
his  spectacles  at  the  oily  Italian,  who  ac- 
knowledged the  introduction  and  resented 
the  wrong  cognomen  with  a  curt  bow.  "And 
who  is  the  other  gentleman?" 

Juanita  next  introduced  the  nervous  little 
man  with  the  large  nose  and  the  snapping 
fingers. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Weinberg?  Very  glad  to  meet 
you,  Mr.  Weinberg."  Producing  the  bag 
of  sweets  from  which  he  occasionally  re- 
galed himself,  he  offered  it  to  the  exas- 
perated Jew,  and  added:  "Have  a  pepper- 
mint?" 

"No  I     No !"  barked  Weinberg. 

"You?"  Clavering  graciously  offered  it  to 
Savelli. 

"No!"  said  Savelli,  with  a  disgusted  growl. 

"Perhaps  I  can  tempt  you?"  said  the  host 


306  THE  CONSPIRACY 

quite  unabashed,  turning  to  Juanita ;  but  she 
too  was  not  to  be  placated  in  that  way. 

To  consume  more  time,  the  crafty  sleuth 
searched  in  the  bag  to  find  a  peppermint 
for  himself  and  thrust  it  in  his  mouth.  The 
effect  of  the  apparently  innocent  lozenge 
was  extraordinary. 

"Ugh !"  he  sputtered,  "moth  balls !  Darn 
this  old  coat !  Plague  take  that  old  Martha. 
Moth  balls,  ugh!" 

But  sympathy  for  this  contretemps  did 
not  efface  the  very  obvious  appearance  of 
impatience  at  the  delay  in  the  countenances 
of  his  three  callers.  He  turned  about  upon 
another  tack. 

"Weinberg,"  he  said,  reflectively.  "Had 
a  character  in  one  of  my  books  once  called 
Weinberg.  Good  Italian  name,  that." 

The  irony  of  this  remark  appeared  alto- 
gether to  escape  his  impatient  visitors. 
With  an  exasperated  sigh  Senora  Perez  en- 
deavoured to  bring  Clavering  finally  to  the 
business  they  had  in  hand.  "Mr.  Claver- 


THE  PLOT  307 

ing,"  she  began,  "we  have  no  time  to  waste. 
Mr.  Savelli  and  Mr.  Weinberg  left  im- 
portant business  to  come  here."  The 
Italian  confirmed  this  with  a  nod  and  Wein- 
berg's  nails  commenced  their  nervous  snap- 
ping again. 

"Oh,  they  did,  eh?"  commented  Clavering. 
"Well — "  he  apologised  for  his  deliberation, 
"then  we  must  hurry." 

Savelli  rose  from  his  chair.  "Yes,  yes, 
where  is  she?"  he  demanded  fiercely. 

"She?     Who?"  Clavering  asked  blankly. 

"The  woman!  The  stenographer,"  said 
Savelli. 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,"  said  Clavering,  as  if  at  last 
he  realised  the  object  of  their  visit.  "Oh, 
I've  got  her  right  where  I  can  put  my  hand 
on  her.  Don't  you  forget  that." 

There  was  a  simultaneous  expression  of 
surprise  from  each  of  the  members  of  the 
Scarlet  Band.  Savelli  was  the  first  to  speak : 
"She  is  not  here?" 

The  novelist  returned  the  Italian's  glare 


808  THE  CONSPIRACY 

with  a  look  of  tolerant  surprise.  "Why  of 
course  not,"  he  said.  "What  made  you 
think  that  she  was  here?" 

"I  thought  from  what  you  said  over  the 
telephone — "  A  thunderous  scowl  began  to 
make  the  evil  face  of  Savelli  look  more  dan- 
gerous than  ever. 

"I  told  you  that  I  had  found  the  woman, 
but  you  don't  think  that  I'd  keep  her  here,  do 
you?"  demanded  Clavering.  "I  told  you 
that  she  was  a  dangerous  character,"  he 
added  with  an  aggrieved  look,  as  if  the  idea 
of  using  his  study  as  a  place  of  detention  for 
dangerous  females  was  preposterous  on  its 
face. 

There  was  another  hurried  exchange  of 
uneasy  glances  between  Savelli  and  the 
woman,  while  Clavering  strained  his  ears  to 
catch  some  sound  from  the  street. 

"Then  you  must  take  us  to  her  at  once," 
asseverated  the  Italian,  and  Weinberg,  re- 
newing his  Jack-in-the-box  antics  from  his 
chair,  chimed  in:  "Yes,  yes,  at  once,  do  you 
hear?" 


THE  PLOT  309 

"Just  a  minute,  in  a  minute,"  promised 
the  novelist  in  pacifying  tones.  "Why, 
what's  the  matter,  Mr.  Weinberg?  You  act 
as  if  you  had  St.  Vitus's  dance.  Did  you 
ever  read  my  story  about  the  burglar 
who  had  St.  Vitus's  dance?  It  finally  be- 
trayed him.  Where  is  that  story?"  He  be- 
gan searching  among  a  pile  of  books  on  the 
mantel,  surreptitiously  looking  out  of  the 
window  all  the  time. 

The  exasperated  trio  held  a  mumbled  con- 
versation together. 

"He  is  an  old  fool,"  Weinberg  was  saying, 
and  looked  ready  to  cry  from  vexation. 

"Sh!"  protested  Juanita,  trying  to  quiet 
her  impatient  companions.  "Let  me  try  him 
again."  Then,  addressing  Clavering  in  her 
sweetest  tones,  though  he  seemed  unmindful 
of  her  presence,  she  pleaded:  "Come;  take  us 
to  the  woman,  this  stenographer,  at  once  if 
she  is  not  here." 

"Eh?"  He  turned  from  his  search  among 
the  books.  "Of  course,"  he  added  in  a  tone 
of  abject  apology,  "you  see  I  get  so  inter- 


310  THE  CONSPIRACY 

ested  in  my  stories  that  I  forget  everything 
else.  Of  course.  We  will  go  now  to  the 
woman." 

With  sighs  of  relief  the  gangsters  rose  and 
prepared  to  follow  Clavering.  "Oh,  do  I 
need  an  overcoat?"  he  stopped  and  asked 
abruptly.  "Is  it  cold  out  of  doors?"  He 
went  to  the  window  again,  peered  at  the  ther- 
mometer, then  dropped  his  glance  quickly  to 
the  street. 

"No,  no,"  assured  Juanita.  "It  is  not 
cold.  Come!" 

"All  right !  Fifty-five,  the  glass  says,"  he 
demurred.  "I  don't  want  to  get  a  cold. 
Colds  are  very  bad  for  mental  workers. 
They  clog  up  the  cells  of  the  brain."  He 
went  to  one  of  his  shelves  and  took  down  a 
jar  to  show  them.  "Did  you  ever  see  a  hu- 
man brain?  It's  a  most  interesting  study." 
He  struck  a  professional  pose,  and  with  a 
wave  of  his  long  arm  began:  "This  is  the 
brain  of  a  criminal.  You  notice  the  forma- 
tion of  the  left  lobe  .  .  ." 

"Ah!  Bah!"  broke  in  Savelli  impatiently, 


THE  PLOT  311 

looking  ready  to  strangle  the  criminologist 
then  and  there,  and  Juanita  implored :  "Mr. 
Clavering,  Mr.  Clavering,  if  you  do  not  take 
us  to  the  woman  now — we  shall  not  be  able  to 
wait." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  meekly  replied  the 
enthusiast  on  brains,  taking  time  nevertheless 
to  replace  the  specimen  carefully  on  the 
shelf.  "There,  that's  right.  Now  we'll 
go." 

Again  the  trio  started  towards  the  door. 
"Here,  hold  on!  Wait  a  minute!"  called 
Clavering  again. 

"What  is  it  now?"  growled  Savelli  sav- 
agely, while  the  Jew  fairly  danced  around 
the  room  in  convulsions  of  impatience. 

"Did  you  bring  the  money?" 

"Yes!"  the  Italian  snarled.  "We  have  it 
here." 

"Let's  see  it!"  demanded  Clavering, 
sitting  at  his  table,  and  indicating  plainly 
that  proceedings  were  at  a  standstill  until 
they  could  satisfy  him  on  the  point  of  their 
financial  standing. 


312  THE  CONSPIRACY 

"You  do  not  trust  me!"  glowered  Savelli. 

"I  don't  trust  anybody.  Let  me  see  the 
money,"  persisted  the  novelist-financier. 

Savelli  glanced  at  Juanita,  who  nodded 
her  head.  "I  will  convince  you,"  he  said 
then,  and  drew  from  his  pocket  a  large  roll 
of  bills  and  slapped  them  on  the  table  before 
Clavering.  "There  are  five  hundred  dol- 
lars," he  added  sarcastically.  "Will  you 
count  them?" 

Clavering  moistened  his  fingers  and  with 
maddening  deliberation  counted  bill  after 
bill.  "Is  it  all  good?  No  counterfeits?"  he 
queried,  taking  up  a  huge  magnifying  glass 
from  the  table,  and  peering  through  to  test 
the  validity  of  the  greenbacks,  which  were 
evil-smelling  enough  to  have  been  long  in 
circulation. 

"It  is  good  money  from  the  Banca  Napoli 
e  Sicilia,"  asserted  the  Italian. 

"Well,  I'm  not  sure  about  that  one,"  ob- 
jected the  examiner,  with  a  prolonged  scru- 
tiny of  one  yellow-back  beneath  the  glass. 
"Maybe  it's  all  right,  though."  He  fin- 


*IS  IT  ALL  GOOD?  NO  COUNTERFEITS?   HE  QUERIED,  TAKING  UP  A 
HUGE   MAGNIFYING  GLASS." 


THE  PLOT  313 

ished  counting  slowly.  "Look  here!  This 
is  only  five  hundred  dollars." 

"That  is  what  I  said,"  protested  Juanita. 

Clavering  pushed  the  money  towards  Sa- 
velli  scornfully.  "No!  I  wouldn't  waste 
my  time  for  five  hundred  dollars." 

"But  that  was  our  agreement,"  persisted 
the  woman. 

The  novelist  shook  his  head  obdurately. 
"Why,  I  wouldn't  get  mixed  up  in  this  for 
less  than  a  thousand  dollars  at  least,  my  dear 
lady." 

"Oh,  but  we  couldn't  afford  to  pay  that. 
We  are  poor,"  whined  Weinberg. 

Clavering  took  up  his  manuscript  as  if 
he  had  no  further  interest  in  their  project. 
"Be  careful  of  the  stairs  when  you  go  out. 
It's  dark  in  the  hall,"  he  cautioned  as  if  he 
had  spoken  the  final  word. 

With  muttered  imprecations  the  trio 
paused  for  consultation.  Glavering  listened 
intently.  Were  they  really  going?  Had 
he  played  the  game  too  far?  He  glanced 
at  his  watch.  In  three  minutes  Flynn  ought 


314  THE  CONSPIRACY 

to  give  his  signal.  The  novelist  held  his 
breath  in  suspense;  then  as  he  saw  the  three 
turn  back  again,  he  bent  more  busily  than 
ever  over  his  manuscript.  "Ah,  ha!"  he 
chuckled  to  himself.  "The  flies  haven't 
wriggled  out  of  the  web  yet." 

"We  will  give  you  six  hundred  dollars," 
Juanita  announced,  as  she  came  back  to  his 
desk.  "That  is  all  we  can  do;  the  relatives 
are  poor." 

Only  two  minutes  more,  Clavering  was 
calculating. 

"Well,  when  you  get  rich,  come  back  and 
I'll  talk  with  you,"  he  replied,  without  rais- 
ing his  eyes  from  the  pages  before  him. 

Another  mumbled  conference  followed; 
then  Juanita  threw  another  pile  of  bills  on 
the  table.  "We  will  give  you  what  you 
want,  then,"  she  said  curtly. 

"So!  Not  so  poor  as  you  were  a  while 
ago,"  said  Clavering,  gathering  up  the 
money.  He  rose  and  glanced  at  the  clock. 
The  time  had  nearly  reached  the  crucial  mo- 
ment. "Well,  all  right!  Now  I  must 


THE  PLOT  315 

change  my  coat."  He  moved  off  and  had 
almost  reached  his  bedroom  door  when 
"Snap,  Snap,"  something  rattled  against 
the  window  pane.  An  exultant  smile 
beamed  upon  his  crafty  face  as  he  turned. 

"What's  that?"  cried  Savelli,  starting  up. 

"It's  those  street  ruffians  blowing  beans  at 
my  window.  I'll  get  my  cane  and  give  them 
a  good  thrashing,"  Clavering  raged. 

The  Italian  gripped  his  arm.  "Why  did 
you  send  for  us  to  come  here?"  he  demanded 
savagely. 

"Why,  I  thought  you  wanted  to  capture 
that  stenographer,"  was  the  meek  reply. 

A  sharp  cry  of  warning  from  Weinberg 
brought  Savelli  to  the  door. 

"Listen!"  cried  the  terrified  Jew. 

There  was  a  sound  of  hurrying  feet  in  the 
hall  below.  Juanita  rushed  to  the  door  too, 
and  bent  her  ear. 

"It's  a  trap!"  she  shrieked,  rushing  back 
to  her  companion.  With  an  oath  Savelli 
drew  a  knife  and  lunged  at  Clavering: 
"You — "  his  voice  trailed  off  in  an  unmean- 


316  THE  CONSPIRACY 

ing  rattle.  The  next  moment  they  found 
themselves  in  utter  darkness. 

The  novelist  had  reached  the  electric  light 
switch  and  turned  off  the  light.  There  was 
a  rush  of  feet  on  the  stairs,  the  darting  flash 
of  a  dark  lantern.  Curses  and  blows  and 
cries  sounded. 

"Here's  one  of  them!" 

"I've  got  him!" 

"Drop  that  knife !     Drop  it !" 

A  scream,  the  snapping  of  handcuffs,  then 
the  voice  of  Flynn  shouting  to  his  men  to  put 
on  the  lights,  followed. 

"The  switch!  Right  hand,  by  the  door!" 
yelled  Clavering. 

Click!     Flash!     The  lights  were  on. 

"Ha!  Ha!"  jeered  Clavering.  "A  good 
joke,  eh?" 

In  the  moment  of  darkness  he  had 
mounted  the  library  ladder  like  an  agile  cat, 
and  now,  in  the  blinding  rekindling  of  the 
light,  stood  revealed  on  the  very  top  of  the 
bookcases,  near  the  hall  door,  grinning  down 


THE  PLOT  317 

with  almost  boyish  glee  at  his  dramatic  cap- 
ture. 

There  came  another  sound  of  feet  upon 
the  stairs,  whereupon  Jack  Howell  and  a 
good-looking  young  man  whom  there  was  no 
difficulty  in  identifying  as  Victor  Holt  burst 
in,  dragging  between  them  still  another  ter- 
rified captive. 

"Well,  this  is  immense!"  shouted  the  re- 
porter, as  he  looked  about  the  room. 
"We've  got  all  four  of  them!  Here's  the 
man  who  did  the  trick,  Mr.  Holt."  He 
grasped  the  hand  of  the  elated  Clavering 
and  presented  the  lawyer  and  the  novelist  to 
each  other. 

But  the  latter  had  no  time  for  congratu- 
lations. 

"Get  them  out  of  here!"  he  commanded, 
waving  his  hands  impatiently  at  the  detect- 
ives. "Get  them  out  of  here!  I've  got  to 
get  to  work  again.  Hah!"  he  ejaculated, 
as  the  gangsters  were  led  away.  "Got  an 
idea  for  another  chapter!  'The  Round 


318  THE  CONSPIRACY 

Up.' '  And  he  began  to  scribble  hastily  at 
his  desk.  The  capture  of  four  members  of 
the  Scarlet  Band  was  lost  as  an  everyday 
occurrence  in  the  resurgence  of  his  ruling 
passion. 

"But  Margaret,  my  sister,  where  is  she?" 
demanded  Holt,  laying  his  hand  on  the  old 
man's  shoulder. 

"Oh,  that's  so!"  said  Clavering,  who  had 
been  oblivious  of  Margaret  too  in  the  flood 
of  inspiration  that  swept  over  him.  "I'll  call 
her!" 

Margaret  came  quickly  at  his  summons, 
and  paused  at  the  door  a  moment,  then  with 
a  wild  cry  of  joy  rushed  straight  to  her 
brother's  arms. 

"Victor!  Victor!"  she  sobbed  as  he 
clasped  her  close.  "I  have  you  back !  You 
are  safe!  Oh,  my  dear,  is  it  true?  Is  it 
true?" 

For  a  moment  Victor  Holt  could  not 
speak.  Then  he  bent  his  head  close  to  the 
dark  one  of  his  sister  lying  on  his  breast. 
"There,  there,  dear,  it's  all  right!  It's  all 


THE  PLOT  319 

right,  Honey!  We  are  together  again. 
There,  dear!  There." 

Howell,  choked  by  a  strangling  feeling  in 
his  throat,  slipped  out  of  the  room.  The 
criminologist  blew  his  nose  and  blinked,  with 
an  unaccustomed  moisture  in  his  eyes.  .  .  . 

The  following  day,  true  to  Howell's  pre- 
diction, the  papers  were  full  of  Clavering's 
achievement.  It  was  with  a  supreme  grin 
of  satisfaction  that  the  novelist  read  the 
head-lines:  "WINTHROP  CLAVER- 
ING THE  AUTHOR  RESCUES  VIC- 
TOR HOLT  AND  CORRALS  NEW 
YORK'S  MOST  NOTORIOUS  GANG- 
STERS." 

"Huh!"  he  grunted.  "And  they  would 
call  me  'Old  Grape  Nuts'  eh?  I  suppose 
that  reporter  has  given  himself  some  credit 
too."  However,  though  he  read  every  word 
of  the  stirring  account,  he  could  find  no 
mention  of  John  Howell.  Everything  was 
Clavering — Clavering — Clavering. 

There  was  a  great  rounding  up  by  Holt 
and  his  men  during  the  next  few  days,  for 


320  THE  CONSPIRACY 

Howell  had  communicated  to  them  the  re- 
sults of  his  visit  to  Dixon,  the  radiographer. 
Dixon  had  succeeded  wonderfully  in  photo- 
graphing the  contents  of  the  package  that 
Margaret  had  secured  at  the  Beaumont,  and 
by  means  of  the  purloined  and  X-rayed  list 
nearly  all  the  members  of  the  Scarlet  Band 
were  run  to  earth  and  captured.  The  pub- 
lic drew  a  long  sigh  of  relief  and  sat  back  to 
await  the  next  in  order  of  the  city's  nine 
days'  wonders.  But  it  was  indeed  a  long 
time  before  complete  oblivion  overtook  the 
doings  of  the  Scarlet  Band. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  END   OF   THE   STORY 

SPRING  had  come  again,  and  the  wooded 
hills  about  Chester,  up  in  Maine,  were  green 
with  vigorous,  new  foliage.  The  brook  that 
wound  down  the  hillside  babbled  its  welcome 
to  the  vernal  change,  and  leaped  forward 
along  its  rocky  bed  in  copious  floods.  Now 
stopping  to  take  breath  in  some  shady  pool, 
pushing  on  again  over  mossy  rocks,  in  whirl- 
ing, Dervish-like  eddies,  it  joined  with  the 
birds  to  make  Spring  audible. 

Margaret  Holt  watched  the  sparkling 
water.  It  seemed  to  be  singing  to  her,  an- 
swering the  troubled  questions  in  her  heart ; 
"Spring!  Spring!"  it  sang.  "It  is  the  time 
to  be  joyous!  The  past  is  dead!  Beyond 
there  are  tranquil  waters.  Come!  Come!" 

A,nd  Victor  Holt  too  paused  a  moment, 
as  he  came  up  the  bank  winding  his  reel,  to 

321 


322  THE  CONSPIRACY 

watch  his  sister.  What  a  picture  she  made, 
he  thought,  as  she  sat  there,  leaning  her  chin 
upon  her  hand.  Her  grey  eyes,  black  now 
with  the  intensity  of  her  thought,  gazed 
sweetly  into  space;  the  soft  breeze  blew 
gently  on  the  tendrils  of  her  lustrous  hair; 
her  cheeks  were  flushed  with  pink ;  her  whole 
figure  glowed  with  spirit  and  perfect  health. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  Sis?"  he 
asked,  as  he  dropped  to  the  ground  beside 
her. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  she  answered,  startled. 
Involuntarily  she  crushed  a  letter  in  her 
hand,  and  hid  it  in  the  grass  beside  her. 

"You've  had  a  letter  from  Jack  Howell 
lately,  haven't  you?"  he  asked  casually,  as 
he  lighted  his  pipe. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  with  a  sigh,  "and  I 
don't  know  what  to  say  to  it." 

"Well?"  Victor  blew  the  smoke  from  his 
mouth  in  curling  rings.  "What  do  you 
want  to  say?" 

The  girl  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then 
with  a  sudden  impulse  gave  the  letter  to  her 


THE  END  OF  THE  STORY    823 

brother.     "Read  it,  Vic,  and  tell  me,"  she 
said. 

He  took  the  crumpled  thing  and  opened 
it  out.  The  words  were  badly  blotted — by 
tears,  he  guessed.  He  read : 

"You  say  the  past  has  made  you  an  outcast 
from  the  world.  Well,  that's  not  so.  And  yet, 
until  you  feel  differently,  let's  have  a  new  world 
of  our  own.  It  will  be  a  little  one,  but  I  don't 
mind  being  exclusive.  There  can  never  be  anyone 
else  in  the  big  world  for  me,  so  why  condemn  me 
to  a  life  of  miserable  loneliness?  Come  and  live 
in  my  heart  and  let  that  be  your  world.  You  say 
you  can't  get  away  from  yourself.  Why,  yes 
you  can,  for  in  this  heart  of  mine  no  one  can  fol- 
low you.  I  realise  all  you  say  about  the  work  to 
which  you  have  consecrated  yourself;  but  haven't 
you  now  done  your  share?  Why  not  take  up  a 
new  mission  in  life,  and  devote  yourself  to  making 
one  miserable  man  happy?  Think  it  over,  little 
girl.  Don't  write  me  again  that  nothing  can 
change  your  decision,  because  you  are  only  fooling 
yourself.  I  can  change  it,  and  I  am  going  to  do 
it,  too,  if  we  wait  to  celebrate  our;  honeymoon  in 
the  Old  Couples'  Home.  But  tell  me  now  that  we 
need  not  wait.  Say  yes ! 


324  THE  CONSPIRACY 

"Write  me  care  of  my  club,  for  I  may  be  out 
of  town  a  week  or  two." 

Victor  smiled  as  he  handed  back  the  let- 
ter. "Good  old  Jack,"  he  said.  "He's  a 
wonder.  Pure  gold."  A  great  wave  of 
gratitude  made  his  voice  husky.  "If  it 
hadn't  been  for  him,  little  girl,"  he  said, 
"neither  of  us  would  have  been  here  to-day." 
He  watched  Margaret  for  a  moment,  then 
said  abruptly,  "Don't  you  love  him,  Sis?" 

He  could  see  her  lovely  colour  mounting 
from  throat  to  brow,  but  she  only  shook  her 
head.  The  grey  eyes  met  his  bravely.  "It 
would  not  be  right,"  she  answered. 

"Now  look  here,  Margaret,"  said  Victor. 
"You  must  not  go  on  brooding  over  the  past. 
Jack  knows,  and  he  loves  you,  and  wants 
you.  There's  your  answer  to  that.  If 
you're  wavering  between  duty  and  happi- 
ness, I  can  settle  that  for  you  now.  Never 
so  long  as  I  live  shall  you  go  back  to  the 
work  you've  been  doing.  You've  done  your 
part  and  enough.  My  God,  what  a  part  it 
has  been!"  His  voice  shook,  as  he  hurried 


THE  END  OF  THE  STORY    325 

on.  "It  is  work  for  men  now.  You  have 
asked  my  advice,  and  here  it  is.  If  Jack 
Howell  means  happiness  to  you,  take  him. 
You  have  every  right." 

Margaret  sat  where  he  left  her,  and 
watched  him  disappear  through  the  trees. 
With  a  sigh,  she  reached  for  the  letter  that 
lay  on  the  ground  beside  her.  Her  hand 
brushed  a  little  bunch  of  forget-me-nots  that 
she  had  thrust  into  her  belt  as  she  came 
through  the  garden.  She  took  them  up 
and  held  them  close,  and  the  quaint  words 
of  Howell's  in  The  Refuge  came  to  her: 
"A  souvenir  of  our  meeting,  a  nice  little 
bunch  of  forget-me-nots,"  he  had  said  about 
his  wounded  fingers.  She  had  a  sudden 
vision  of  the  bruised  and  bleeding  hand,  and 
with  a  little  cry  of  love  and  longing,  she 
pressed  the  blue  flowers  passionately  to  her 
lips. 

"  'Out  of  town  a  week  or  two,'  the  letter 
said.  Why,"  she  mused,  aloud,  "I  wonder 
where  he  is?" 

"Well,   he's   in   the  country  just   now, 


326  THE  CONSPIRACY 

getting  close  to  Paradise,"  said  a  familiar 
voice  among  the  trees  behind  her.  She 
sprang  startled  to  her  feet  and  turned. 

Jack  Howell  himself  was  standing  there, 
looking  at  her  with  grave,  intent  eyes. 

For  an  instant  his  glance  travelled  to  his 
letter,  which  had  fluttered  to  the  ground, 
then  back  to  her  face  again.  He  smiled: 
"Well?"  and  again  he  said,  as  he  had  said 
once  long  before,  "Well? — " 

Victor  Holt  sat  swinging  his  legs  from  the 
bars  of  the  pasture  fence  as  Howell,  with 
his  arm  about  Margaret,  came  slowly  down 
the  wooded  road.  "Thank  God!"  he  mur- 
mured fervently  as  he  saw  them  together, 
and  perceived  the  radiance  in  his  sister's 
face. 

"And  after  all,"  said  Jack,  seizing  Victor's 
extended  hand,  "old  Clavering  has  struck  it 
right  again." 

"Clavering?     How's  that?"  said  Victor. 

"Listen  to  this,"  Jack  said,  and  gaily 
waved  a  clipping  that  he  extracted  from  his 


THE  END  OF  THE  STORY    327 

pocket.     "I  culled  this  from  the  final  chap- 
ter of  the  great  story,"  he  explained. 

Victor  laughed  as  Jack  began  to  read 
aloud  dramatically: 

'  'As  the  now  beaten  and  baffled  Scarlet 
Banders  were  led  away,  shackled  to  the  de- 
tectives, a  half  sob  of  triumph  broke  from 
our  heroine's  lips.  Then  the  light  of  love 
flamed  into  her  beautiful  grey  eyes  and  she 
turned  towards  the  young  reporter  waiting 
with  outstretched  arms  to  receive  her.  At 
last  she  had  found  her  real  refuge.  With  a 
sob  of  ecstatic  joy,  the  words  came  from 
her  lips  ...'"" 

"Margaret,"  cried  Victor. 

"The  words,  'I  love  you,'  "  quoted  Mar- 
garet, prettily,  in  conclusion.  "Yes,  Victor, 
it's  true." 


THE   END 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

305  De  Neve  Drive  -  Parking  Lot  17  •  Box  951388 

LOS  ANGELES,  CALIFORNIA  90095-1388 


SEP  05  ; 


DUE  2  WKS  FROM  DA 


001 


E  RECEIVED 


ttt 


Form 


A     000  096  840     4 


I 


PLEASE  DO   NOT    REMOVE 
THIS   BOOK  CARDIJ 


University  Research  Library 


1£ 


•i 

(VJ 


